IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


1.1 


IM   125 


■iO 


ti^m 


12.2 


11' 
£f  1^    12.0 

u 

u 


WUu 


IL25  i  1.4 


I 


1.6 


Photographic 

Sciences 

Corporalion 


23  WeST  hMH  STREIT 

WltFfTiR.N.Y.  145M 

(7l6)t72-4SC3 


%^ 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/iCIViH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproducticns  historiques 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notaa/Nota*  tachniquaa  at  bibliographiquas 


t 


Tha  Instituta  has  attamptad  to  obtain  tha  bast 
original  copy  availabia  for  filming.  Faaturaa  of  thia 
copy  which  may  ba  bibliographically  uniqua. 
which  may  altar  any  of  tha  imagas  in  tha 
reproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  change 
the  usual  method  of  filming,  are  checked  below. 


D 


D 


D 


D 


□ 


D 


Coloured  covers/ 
Couverture  de  couleur 


I      I   Covers  damaged/ 


Couverture  endommagto 


Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaurAe  at/ou  pellicula 


I      I   Cover  title  missing/ 


Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 

Coloured  maps/ 

Cartes  g^ographiquas  en  couleur 


□   Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 

□   Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 
Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 

□    Bound  with  other  material/ 
Reli6  avec  d'autres  documents 


Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion 
along  interior  margin/ 

La  re  liure  serrie  peut  causer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la 
distortion  le  long  de  la  marge  intArieure 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may 
appear  within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these 
have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 
II  se  peut  que  certaines  pages  blanches  ajoutias 
lors  d'une  restauration  apparaissent  dans  le  texte. 
mais,  lorsqua  cela  Atait  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pas  At6  filmtes. 

Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  supplAmentaires: 


L'Institut  a  microfilm*  le  meilleur  exemplaire 
qu'il  lui  a  At*  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  details 
de  cet  exemplaire  qui  sent  peut-Atre  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bibliographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier 
une  image  reproduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dans  la  mithoda  normala  de  filmage 
sont  indiqute  ci-dessous. 


I     I   Coloured  pages/ 


D 


Pages  de  couleur 


□    Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  endommagies 

□   Pages  restored  end/or  laminated/ 
Pages  restaurias  et/ou  pelliculies 


Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 
Pages  dteolortes,  tachaties  ou  piquies 


I      I    Pages  detached/ 


Pages  d^tachies 

Showthroughy 
Transparence 

Quality  of  prir 

Quaiit6  intgala  de  I'impression 

Includes  supplementary  materii 
Comprend  du  material  suppi^mantaira 

Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  Edition  disponlble 


rri  Showthrough/ 

I      I  Quality  of  print  varies/ 

I     I  Includes  supplementary  material/ 

I — I  Only  edition  available/ 


T 

a 


n 

m 


Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Les  pages  totalement  ou  partieilement 
obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata.  une  pelure, 
etc..  ont  M  filmies  A  nouveau  de  fapon  A 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  film*  au  taux  de  rMuction  indiqui  ci-dessous. 

10X  14X  18X  22X 


26X 


30X 


i 


12X 


16X 


aox 


MX 


28X 


32X 


Th*  copy  filmad  h«r«  hat  bMn  r«produc«d  thanks 
to  tha  ganarosKy  of: 

University  of  British  Columbia  Library 


L'axamplaira  filmA  fut  raproduit  grica  A  la 
gAnAroaiti  da: 

University  of  British  Columbia  Library 


Tha  imagaa  appaaring  hara  ara  tha  baat  quality 
poaaibia  conaidaring  tha  condition  and  lagibility 
of  tha  original  copy  and  in  Icaaping  with  tha 
filming  contract  apacif icationa. 


Original  copiaa  in  printad  papar  covers  ara  filmad 
beginning  with  tha  front  covar  and  anding  on 
tha  last  paga  with  a  printad  or  illustratad  impraa- 
aion,  or  tha  ttmck  covar  whan  appropriata.  All 
othar  original  copies  ara  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printad  or  illuatrated  impres- 
sion, and  anding  on  the  last  page  with  a  printad 
or  illustrated  impression. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  -^  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 

Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  end  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Lea  images  suivantes  ont  AtA  reproduites  avac  la 
plua  grand  soin.  compta  tenu  de  la  condition  at 
de  la  nettetA  de  I'exempiaire  f iimA,  et  en 
conformltA  avac  las  conditions  du  contrat  da 
filmage. 

Lea  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  ImprimAe  sent  filmAs  en  commenpent 
par  la  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
darnlAre  paga  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'iliustration.  soit  par  la  second 
plat,  salon  la  cas.  Tous  las  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  filmAs  en  commenpant  par  la 
premlAre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'iliustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  darnlAre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 

Un  des  symboies  suivants  apparaltra  sur  la 
darnlAre  image  de  chaque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  la  symbols  -^>  signifie  "A  SUIVRE",  le 
symbols  V  signifie  "FIN". 

Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc..  peuvent  Atre 
filmAs  A  des  taux  de  rAduction  diff Arents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  Atre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  clichA,  11  est  fiimA  A  partir 
de  I'angia  supArieur  gauche,  de  gauche  A  droite. 
et  de  haut  en  bas.  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  nAcessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  ia  mAthode. 


1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

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7^-/fl.l    r-t-n   ^ 


POEMS 


x^.-*i^- ■■/ tL^ 


■<  I  -  :  T   '■>■■■ 


/'■ 


BY 


A.   K.    ARCHIBALD. 


"  Nor  Fume  I  court,  nor  for  her  favors  call ; 
She  comes  unlook'd  for,  if  she  comes  at  all  j — 
And  if  the  boon  must  cost  so  dear  a  price 
As  soothing  folly,  or  exalting  vice — 
Then,  teach  me,  Heaven,  to  scorn  the  guilty  bays, 
Drive  from  my  soul  that  hateful  lust  of  praise. 
Unbleinish'd  let  me  live,  or  die  unknown — 
O,  grant  mo  honest  fame !  or  grant  me  none." 

Pope. 


^ff®*^ 


BOSTON: 
THOMAS  WILEY,  JR.,  20  STATE  STREET. 

1848. 


il 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1848,  by 

T.  WiLEv,  Jr. 

In  the  Clerk's  Oflice  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


^Hm 


White  &  Potter,  Printers, 
Spring  Lane,  Boston. 


CONTENTS. 


Page. 
Midnight  Ramble,        ----..  5 

David  and  Goliath, 37 

Noctuary,    ----..        ..go 

Maniac,           -----..  55 

My  Brother,        -------65 

Eve,  to  the  Birds  of  Paradise,  -        -        .        .  73 

Passage  of  the  Red  Sea, 79 

New  Year, gl 

Could  Spirits, -  84 

The  Grave,              ----..  gg 

A  Night  in  the  Wilds,         -       -        ...  90 

To  a  Rose,     ----...  go 

Angela, jqj 

Legend, .  J47 

So»g» 150 

The  Breezes  of  Spring, 152 


^H*%; 


«*^i*' 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


-I 


Page. 

Autumn,  I  Love  Thee, 155 

Hymn, 160 

Return,       -       - 163 

Remember  Me, 164 

Pastor*s  Farewell, 167 

Hymn, 170 

Summer  Evening,        -        -        -        -        -        -  172 

Psalm  cxlviii., 175 

Hebrews,  First  Chapter, 177 

How  Sweet  to  Stroll, 180 

Song, 182 

Song, 184 

Song 186 

Apolf               - 189 

Song, 191 

Song, 193 

Song, 194 

Can  1  Forget, 195 

'T  is  Pleasing, 198 


MIDNIGHT    RAMBLE. 


CANTO   I. 


r. 

With  dcep'ning  shades,  night's  solemn  noon  had 

spread 
Its  sable  curtain  o'er  a  sleeping  world  ; 
Dense,  sullen  clouds  were  hovering  over  head, 
And  Night,  as  queen,  her  banners  all  unfurled  : 
Not  even  a  breeze  the  sleeping  waters  curled, 
For  every  sound  lay  hushed  in  Nature's  sleep, 
Save  the  far  distant  cataract,  which  hurled 
Its  liquid  floods  o'er  the  untrodden  steep. 
And   with  low,  sullen  sounds  unceasing  seemed  to 
weep. 


6 


HIDNIGIIT  RAMBLE. 


II. 

^    Yet,  even  this  mysterious  death-like  hour 

Has  charms  for  those  who  catch  the  Muse's  fire — 
Who  love  to  stroll  by  her  sequestered  bower, 
And  quaff  delights  fresh  frcm  her  magic  lyre  ; 
Thus  Alwin  strolled,  nor  hastened  to  retire, 
Bound  by  that  spell  unconscious  where  he  strayed, 
Each  scene  could  please  (did  but  the  muse  in- 
spire,) 
And  sullen  midnight  softest  charms  displayed. 
Whilst  meditation  cast  her  halo  round  his  head. 


III. 
Thus  passed  the  hour — when,  far  amid  the  gloom, 
A  glowing  lamp  struck  full  upon  his  eye ; 
At  first,  he  deemed  some  spirit  o'er  the  tomb 
Walked,  unrevenged,  perchance  a  murderer  nigh ; 
Anxious  the  cause  to  learn,  nor  knew  he  why, 
He  hastened  forward,  though  with  cautious  tread, 
When  lo !  amid  the  gloom,  and  rising  high 
A  stately  pile,  with  sign-post  coyly  spread, 
From  whose  high-lifted  sash  discordant  voices  sped. 


MIDNIGHT  HAMBLE.  7 

nr. 

Now,  through  the  window,  he  could  well  discern    -  *^ 
The  busy  landlord,  happily  employed, 
Each  emptied  cup  replenishing  in  turn. 
The  merry  group  confusIon^s  sweets  enjoyed  ; 
Corroding  care  no  more  their  breasts  annoyed  ; 
But,  hushed  beneath  the  Bacchanalian  rpr  11, 
Each  thought  of  home  and  tenderness  destroyed. 
Here  love  and  fond  affection  never  dwell — 
The  dr'.Mxkard's  midnight  song  proclaims  their  funeral 
knell. 


V. 

Fast  fly  the  hours,  and  fast  the  glass  goes  round  ; 
Aloud  is  heard  the  scandal  and  the  jest ; 
And  laughter,  tooj  with  hoarse  discordant  sound, 
At  jokes  half  told,  (for  they  can  guess  the  rest ;) 
The  kind  landlady,  too,  at  their  request. 
Sips  from  the  glass  a  double  end  to  serve  ; 
Again  she  tastes,  and  why,  because  she 's  pressed, 
And  would  not  seem  too  haughty,  or  reserve, 
But  with  a  willing  mind  lends  mirth  a  willing  nerve. 


^- ;  'W 


M 


8 


MIDNIGHT   RAMBLE. 


VI. 

And  now  the  Bacchanalian  songs  resound 
With  grating  chorus,  lower  some,  some  higher. 
While  happiness  complete  spreads  all  around — 
At  least,  they  deem  it  so,  nor  more  require  ; 
The  landlord  stirs  the  just  replenished  fire, 
And  talks  of  war,  of  politics,  and  then 
Avers  their  comfort  is  their  first  desire  ; 
The  dupes  believe  it  even  so,  for  when 
The  can  is  emptied  next,  he  fills  it  up  again. 


VII. 

Thus  passed  the  night — no  sorrow,  no  remorse  ; 
Each  hour  chimed  sweetly  as  "  a  marriage  bell,'* 
'Till  a  dispute  arose,  about  a  horse. 
Which  not  the  landlord's  eloquence  could  quell ; 
To  check  the  gathering  tempest,  ere  it  fell. 
He  and  his  spouse  combined — but  all  in  vain  j 
'T  was  now  no  time  for  parley  ;  just  as  well 
Might  they  have  striven  to  stay  the  storm-chased 
main. 
Remand  its  billows  back,  and  calm  its  face  again* 


MIDNIGHT   RAMBLE. 


VIII. 


Loud  grew,  and  louder  still,  the  dire  cabal, 
Commixed  with  oaths  unfitting  to  be  told — 
Oaths,  quite  unworthy  beings  rational. 
From  their  unholy  lips  profusely  rolled  ; 
And  yet  the  feud  increased,  and  did  unfold 
A  wretched  picture  of  depravity. 
Scarcely  surpassed  by  Circe's  den  of  old. 
Where  wizards  piped  to  midnight  revelry. 
Still  boasting  o'er  their  feats  of  magic  chivalry. 


IX 

Next  the  red  fight  commenced,  and  then  the  host 
And  hostess,  each  to  each,  their  fears  revealed  ; 
And  since  all  hope  to  quell  the  feud  was  lost, 
'T  was  deemed  expedient   they  should   quit  the 

field, 
'Till  either  party,  vanquished,  should  yield, 
Restoring  peace  and  concord,  as  bef^/e  ; 
Confusion  now  rode  foremost,  while  some  reeled. 
Some  i  taggering,  fell  half  senseless  on  the  floor. 
O'er  their  quietus  mused, though  rudely  trampled  o'er. 


JO 


MIDNIGHT   RAMBLE. 


X. 

Bottles  and  glasses  next  to  ruin  rushed — 
Unheeded  now,  their  fragments  lay  around  ; 
A  window,  too,  from  its  environs  pushed. 
Jingled  to  discord  yet  another  sound. 
Meanwhile,  the  landlord  better  courage  found. 
And  rushed  into  the  room,  with  furious  mien. 
Demanding  order,  in  a  voice  profound. 
Deep-toned  and  terrible — stilling  the  scene  ; 
Each  well-tired  warrior  pleased  to  find  him  intervene. 


M 


XI. 

'T  is  true,  some  imprecations  vile  were  uttered. 

When  the  replenished  lamp  again  shone  bright ; 

Keen   curses,  too,  and   some  foul  threats  were 

muttered 

To  find  their  garments  in  such  tattered  plight ; 

Could  each  his  face  have  seen,  methinks  the  sight 

Would  have  renewed  the  strife  itself  alone, 

And  urged  the  parties  on  to  second  fight ; 

This  they  could  not,  and  as  the  gay  lamp  shone, 

Encli  deemed  his  neighbor's  face  far  bloodier  than 
his  own. 


MIDNIGHT   RAMBLE. 


11 


XIT. 

The  landlord,  now,  demanding  mute  attention. 
In  milder  voice  to  them  this  counsel  vends  ; — 
Since  Reason  triumphs  o'er  its  late  suspension, 
At  my  expense  you  now  must  drink,  good  friends ; 
But  recollect — that  here  your  quarrel  ends, 
Whose  odium  falls  on  me,  though  undeserved — 
You  know  the  credit  of  my  house  depends 
On  order,  and  decorum,  well  observed — 
Then  let  oblivion's  blank  be  o'er  it  firmly  nerved. 


XIII. 

'T  is  true,  't  was  but  a  trifle,  but  you  know 
These  temperance  votaries  loudly  will  disclaim 
Even  at  such  trifles — nay^  they  oft  bestow 
Great  pains,  to  cause  us  landlords  grief  and  shame  ; 
Yes,  happen  here  what  will,  at  once  the  blame 
Devolves  on  me,  as  't  was  the  other  day. 
Such  blinded  zealots  shock  all  honest  fame. 
And  lead  deluded  thousands  far  astray — 
But  come,  my  friends,  we'll  drink  and  chase  all 
care  away. 


12 


MIDNIGHT   BAMBLE. 


XIV. 


The  spirit,  fair,  of  Temperance  passing  by, 

Lingered  a  moment  and  the  scene  surveyed  ; 

And  as  she  gazed,  her  tender  beaming  eye 

Distilled  soft  drops,  fast  gliding  to  the  shade— 

In  a  pure  robe  of  sympathy  arrayed. 

With  heart  to  envy  and  ill-will  unknown. 

She  raised  her  hands  and  sighed — perhaps  she 

prayed. 
And  scarcely  did  suppress  the  rising  groan. 
While  she  invoked  a  power  superior  to  her  own. 

XV. 

Nor  did  these  midnight  revelers  once  pause. 
Or,  for  one  moment,  dream  that  other  eyea 
Gazed  tearfully,  and  sought  to  plead  their  cause — 
That  other  ears,  with  horror  and  surprise. 
Listened  each  swelling  oath,  and  marked  its  rise, 
*Mid  fears  which  love  and  pity,  joined,  impart ; 
As  flies  the  sere  autumnal  leaf,  so  flies 
Reflection  from  the  drunkard^s  callous  heart. 
Leaving  a  leafless  branch  exposed  to  every  dart. 


MIDNIGHT  EAAIBLE. 


13 


XVI. 

Again  loud  mirth  resounded  o'er  the  glade, 
Hoarse  as  the  voice  of  some  high-swollen  stream ; 
And  how  could  he,  who  woo'd  the  silent  shade. 
Catch  pleasure  from  such  scenes  of  wild  extreme  ? 
This  the  broad  road  to  ruin  he  did  deem, 
And  sternly  chid  his  too  protracted  stay ; 
Then  strove  to  banish,  like  a  passing  dream. 
The  hateful  scene— nor  would  his  thoughts  obey. 
While  musing,  and  alone,  he  homeward  bent  his  way. 


CANTO   II. 


I. 

Hush  !    heard   you   not  a   sigh  ?    deep  drawn  it 

seemed, 
As  if  the  aching  heart  which  gave  it  birth 
Was  overwhelmed  with  woe  ;  can  it  be  deemed 
Intrusioii,  o'er  this  weeping  child  of  earth 
To  sympathize  ?  perchance,  intrinsic  worth, 
By  sorrow  stung,  pours  forth  the  silent  tear : 
Perchance,  the  circle  round  this  cottage  hearth 
Is  broken,  and  the  pang  is  too  severe 
For   female    tenderness — perchance,   no   friend   to 

clieer. 


MIDNIGHT   BAMBLB. 


15 


II. 

But  hush  !  again,  upon  the  night  wind's  wing, 
Bursts  the  deep  sigh,  with  sad  and  plaintive  swell ; 
Slowly  it  sweeps  my  bosom's  tendercst  string, 
And  on  mine  ear  falls  like  a  passing  knell ; 
And  now,  against  its  casement  gently  fell 
The  creaking  cottage  door,  and  all  was  still. 
When  through  the  pane,  (need  Alwin  blush  to  tell,) 
When  heavenly  sympathy  pure  bosoms  fill, — 
Be  hushed  ye  vulgar  throng,  nor  taint  the  hallowed 
thrill. 


III. 

See,  the  fresh  fagot  lights  the  naked  walls, 
Whose  interstices  half  admit  the  storm, — 
Such  as  romance  has  told  of  ruined  halls 
Where  injured  ghosts  nocturnal  rounds  perform, — 
Pensively  musing,  sat  a  female  form  ; 
The  starting  tear  was  gathering  in  her  eye. 
Where  youth  and  love  once  held  a  station  warm, 
Now  dimmed,  alas,  by  ghastly  poverty. 
Its  kindling  lustre  fled,  o'ervvhelmed  with  misery. 


16 


MIDNIGHT   RAMBLE. 


IV. 

Her  children  now  forgetting  all  their  cares, 
Lay  wrapt  in  sleep's  oblivious  embrace ; 
One  only  waked  to  blend  its  infant  tears 
With  those  that  glided  o'er  the  mother's  face ; 
A  holy  calm  presided  o'er  the  place 
When  the  poor  boy,  upon  his  bended  knee, 
With  lifted  hands,  implored  Heaven's  richest  grace 
To  rescue  from  impending  misery — 
To  shield    their  lonely  cot,  and  from   destruction 
free. 


V. 

At  length  sleep  closed  her  curtain  o'er  his  head, 
Which  on  his  mother's  knee  in  peace  reclined ; 
The  fast  expiring  embers  dimly  shed 
Their  flickering  shadows  o'er  the  wall  behind. 
But  deeper  shades  were  flitting  o'er  her  mind — 
Some  dire  presage  had  filled  her  breast  with  fear ; 
The  scene  was  loneliness  with  grief  combined. 
Alwin,  attentive,  leaned  himself  to  hear. 
When  this  soliloquy  fell  on  his  listening  ear : 


MIDNIGHT  BAMBLE. 


17 


V!. 

"  How  dark  and  lonely  is  this  midnight  hour, 
When  Sol  retires  behind  the  dusky  pole, 
For  all  but  me  sleep  spreads  a  fragrant  bower — 
O'er  all  but  me  her  halcyon  sweets  may  roll ; 
But  whence  this  sad  presentiment  to  my  soul  r 
What  new  calamity  is  pending  there  ? 
Ye  gracious  powers !  my  rising  fears  control, 
And  stay  the  torrent  gendering  despair. 
Accumulating  woes  give  fortitude  to  bear. 


VII. 


i( 


But  say,  propitious  Power,  oh !  where  is  he 
Who  vowed  so  oft  to  soothe  my  every  woe — 
To  charm  my  sorrows,  and  to  share  with  me 
Each  precious  gift  kind  Heaven  might  bestow  ? 
Ah,  tell  me  not — too  well,  alas  !  I  know 
The  place  of  his  resort — that  hateful  place 
Where  fell  destruction  lurks  with  bended  bow — 
Where  drunkards  revel  midst  their  own  disgrace. 
And  foulest  demons  laugh  o'er  man's  degenerate 
race. 


18 


MIDNIGHT   RAMBLE. 


VIII. 

"  There  was  a  time  when  harmony  and  love 
Shed  their  soft  halo  round  our  cheerful  hearth  ; 
Those  heavenly  charms  descending  from  above, 
Our  cottage  seemed  a  paradise  on  earth. 
There  was  a  time  when  innocence  and  mirth 
Chased  the  big  gloom  from  winter's  sullen  eve, 
And  all  was  sweet — as  when  at  Nature's  birth 
The  happy  pair  knew  nought  for  which  to  grieve, 
Ere  that  thrice  envious  fiend  was  suffered  to  deceive. 


IX. 


(( 


But  oh,  how  changed !    now,  famine's  chilling 

damp 
Is  gathering  fust  around  this  wearied  brow, 
While  nought  remains  to  cheer — not  e'en  a  lamp 
To  dissipate  the  gloom  around  me  now. 
O,  Edward  !  call  to  mind  that  broken  vow 
Which  promised  ne'er  to  leave  me  thus  again  ; 
Heaven  will  be  kind  if  mortals  but  allow — 
Heaven  loves  to  soothe  each  agonizing  pain  ; 
Come,  Edward,  come,  my  love,  nor  will  I  more 

complain. 


MIDNIGHT   RAMBLE. 


19 


X. 

"  But  vain  that  call,  for  still  he  disregards 
Those  fond  entreaties  I  've  so  often  made  ; 
Full  well  I  know  intemperance  retards 
Each  virtuous  thought,  and  sinks  it  to  the  shade  ; 
Nought  but  the  hand  of  heaven,  in  might  arrayed, 
Can  chase  him  from  the  vile,  bewitching  bowl, 
Back  to  that  virtuous  path  from  whence  he  strayed. 
And  bid  content  again  around  me  roll — 
My  sinking  hopes  revive,  and  all  those  fears  control. 


XL 

"  Sleep  on,  sweet  babes,  thou  nurslings  of  the  storm. 
Perchance,  on  you  may  dawn  some  happier  day. 
When  no  dark  cloud  shall  linger  to  deform, 
Nor  stern  misfortune  chase  those  joys  away  ; 
That  season  yet  may  come,  0,  that  it  may. 
And  Heaven's  propitious  smile  upon  you  fall ; 
But  1  must  never  catch  one  cheering  ray 
While  Edward  haunts  the  drunkard's  loathsome 

hall. 
Destroys  each  thought  of  Heaven,  and  wastes  his 

earthly  all.' 


»» 


20 


MIDNIORT  RAMBLE. 


XII. 

Who  could  have  listened  longer  to  the  tale, 
And  yet  the  sympathizing  tear  repel  ? 
As  well  might  Alwin  strive  to  check  the  gale, 
Or  stay  the  ocean's  wild  tempestuous  swell ; 
Yet,  sorrow  so  severe,  he  knew  full  well 
Where  hope,  extinct,  had  left  a  frowning  shade, 
No  power  on  earth,  no  eloquence  could  quell. 
He  hastened  onward,  o'er  the  deepening  glade. 
Where  silence  flapped  her  wing,  and  all  her  sweets 
displayed. 


CANTO  lit. 


I. 

On  towering  pinions,  hastening  aloft, 
The  joyous  lark  salutes  the  roscid  morn  ; 
Her  quivering  notes,  so  plaintive,  wild  and  soft, 
She  carols  o'er  the  bending  fields  of  com, 
From  russet,  dingle,  dell,  and  dewy  thorn, 
A  thousand  notes  in  sweetest  concert  blend ; 
While  all  the  rainbow's  lovely  tints  adorn 
The  radiant  East — unnumbered  charms  attend. 
For  night's  bewildering  shades  in  deepest  caves  are 
penned. 


22 


MIDNIGHT    RAMBLE. 


IT. 

Now  the  benighted  traveller  finds  his  way, 
The  tangled  copse  no  more  his  wishes  bound  ; 
High  swells  his  matin  to  the  God  of  day, 
Mingling,  responsive,  to  the  songs  around, 
Retiring  echo's  hollow  mystic  sound 
In  cadence  sweet  the  grateful  notes  prolong  ; 
Old  ocean  hears,  and  from  the  depths  profound 
Heaves  his  broad  swell,  responsive  to  the  throng  ; 
And  nature's  every  voice  harmonious  swells  the  song. 


III. 
Who  is  the  man,  at  such  an  hour  serene, 
Who  can  devotion's  rising  wing  restrain  ? 
Who  disregards  the  splendid,  dazzling  scene. 
Hears  nature's  mellowing  hymn,  nor  heeds  the 

strain  ? 
But  who  is  this  comes  sweeping  o'er  the  plain 
With  vizage  wild,  betokening  anxious  haste  ? 
Alwin  accosts  him — "  Tell  mc,  gentle  swain. 
What  mars  thy  peace,  when  morn,  so  pure,  so 

chaste. 
Enlivens  all  the  scene,  and  cheers  the  wildest  waste  .^" 


MIDNIGHT   BAMBLE. 


23 


lund 
hrong  : 
e  song. 


IV. 

"  Sad  news,  alas  !"  the  bending  youth  replied, 
"  Enough  to  shade  the  glowing  charms  around, 
For  where   yon   wild-grove   skirts   the   highway 

side, 
A  ghastly  corse  lies  stretched  upon  the  ground ! 
And  as  I  passed,  I  marked  a  bloody  wound 
Deep  in  his  forehead  bare — his  face  I  knew, 
And  to  his  widow  bear  the  unwelcome  sound 
Of  death  !  her  anguish  even  now  T  view — 
But  wait  beside  the  corse  'till  I  return  to  you." 


ne, 
jeds  the 

plain 
(te } 
rain, 
pure,  so 


Soon  Alwin  stands  and  views  the  lowly  corse — 
Some  laborers,  too,  thither  had  chanced  to  stray, 
And  all  agreed,  that  falling  from  a  horse 
Had  thus  reduced  the  man  to  lifeless  clay  ; 
And  one  averred,  that  at  the  dawn  of  day 
He  heard  him  pass,  riding  at  furious  speed. 
Singing  aloud  ;  one  said,  he  came  that  way, 
Seeking  his  master's  stolen  favorite  steed. 
And  this  the  humble  thief  'twas  soon  by  all  agreed. 


t  waste  r 


1' 


24 


r 


MIDNIGHT   RAMBLE. 


VI. 


Too  true  the  charge  ;  alas  !  't  was  even  so  ! 
Firm  in  his  grasp  was  found  the  stolen  whip ; 
And  Alwin  recognized,  (though  lying  low,) 
The  man  who,  yesternight,  could  sit  and  sip 
The  inebriating  draught,  while  on  his  lip 
Trembled  the  oath,  for  utterance  too  great ; 
And  when  compelled,  reluctant  seemed  to  slip 
From  his  unhallowed  mouth !  how  changed  his 
state  ! 
Those  lips  forever  hushed,  sealed  by  the  stamp  of 
Fate. 

VII. 
Now  Alwin  gazed,  in  sorrow  and  dismay, 
On  him  who  yesternight  was  glee  so  rare. 
Now  lying  low,  a  lifeless  lump  of  clay ; 
His  naked  spirit  fled,  but  where — O,  where  ? 
To  realms  of  day  ?    Ah,  no,  no  place  is  there 
For  drunkards  vile ;  thither  they  cannot  fly  I 
Down  to  the  regions,  then,  of  black  despair  ! 
Or,  did  some  delegate  speed  from  on  high. 
Pursue  the  sinking  soul,  and  waft  it  to  the  sky  ? 


MIDNIGHT   RAMBLE. 


25 


his 


VIII. 

But  deeper  sorrow  filled  each  swelling  breast, 
When  lo  !  the  widow,  hastening  o'er  the  lee. 
By  all  the  agony  of  grief  oppressed, 
Crying  aloud,  "  O,  tell  me,  where  is  he  ?" 
Two  wretched  nurslings,  at  each  trembling  knee. 
Wept,  that  their  mother  wept,  unconscious  why. 
And  caught  her  shriek  his  gaping  wound  to  see  ! 
Stern  were  his  nerves,  who  would  with  tearless  eye, 
Gaze  on  that  touching  scene,  nor  breathe  one  pitying 
sigh. 


IX. 

Sad  is  the  sound,  when  the  dark  tempest  hurls 
From  its  firm  base  the  pile  just  now  so  great : 
Sad  is  the  sound,  when  the  fierce  foe  unfurls 
Victorious  banners  o'er  the  conquered  state  : 
When,  yielding  to  the  thunderbolts  of  fate, 
The  victims  of  disease  around  us  fall ; 
Sad  is  the  sound  their  passing  bells  create  : 
Those  echoing  peals,  heart-chilling  fears  recall. 
When  each  revolving  day  shows  the  broad  funeral  palU 


•? 


26 


MIDNIGHT   BAMBLE. 


k 


'' 


[     ! 


But  neither  tho;  tornado's  chilling  roar, 
Bursting  at  midnight  with  appalling  swell, 
Nor  the  rude  foe  upon  the  conquered  shore, 
Hoisting  his  banner,  'mid  war's  furious  yell, 
Nor  yet  the  oft  repeated  funeral  knell, 
Can  waken  pangs  so  touching  to  the  heart 
As  sound  of  female  woe !     No  tongue  can  tell, 
Nor  language  paint,  the  sympathizing  smart 
When  lovely  woman  weeps — stung  by  so  keen  a 
dart. 


i 


XI. 

Hail !  Temperance,   hail !   fair   daughter  of  the 

skies  ; 
*!'  hy  influence  benign  has  chased  away 
From  our  abode  those  chilling  scenes  :  as  flies 
The  mists  of  darkness,  when  the  orb  of  day 
Ascends  his  golden  car,  so  hastes  away 
The  frighted  tyrant  and  his  hateful  train. 
Fair  spirit  rise,  and  with  more  potent  ray 
Thy  pristine  influence  o'er  our  race  regain  ; 
That  nations  yet  unborn  may  hail  thy  joyous  reign. 


DAVID  AND  GOLIATH. 


tell, 
t 
keen  a 


of  the 


fts  flies 

ay 


r 

Btin; 

ous  reign. 


I. 

The  air  was  moved  with  sorrow  ;  and  dismay 
Spread  like  enchantment  o'er  the  camp  of  Saul  t 
The  stoutest  hearts,  to  foul  despair  a  prey , 
Bade  the  contagion  dire  envelop  all : 
Philistia's  chief  spread  awe  ;  as  when  some  bold 
Ferocious  lion  scales  the  peaceful  roof 
Where  dwelt  secure  the  tenants  of  the  fold  t 
Unable  to  resist  they  stand  aloof. 

II. 

Thus  forty  days  elapsed,  and  at  each  eve» 
And  morn,  their  huge  opponent,  with  menacing 
Front,  seemed  more  terrific !  at  length,  to  leave 
The  tented  field,  their  homeward  steps  retracing, 


28 


DAVID   AND   GOLIATH. 


They  all  agreed,  and  to  Philistia's  lords 

To  yield,  and  the  demanded  tribute  pay  : 

All    night   they   held   debate,  and    sheathed   their 

swords 
Just  as  the  cock  proclaimed  the  approaching  day. 

III. 
On  Bethlehem's  shady  vale,  the  loved  retreat 
Of  Piety  and  Peace,  that  morning's  gleam 
Arose  not  unobserved.     Anxious  to  greet 
The  earliest  tidings,  down  the  sacred  stream 
Old  Jesse  strayed  ;  the  morning  dews  fell  soft 
Upon  his  silvery  head,  and  oft  a  sigh 
Escaped,  while  bending  o'er  his  staff,  and  oft 
He  breathed  a  prayer  to  Him  who  reigns  on  high. 

IV. 

Fatigued,  at  length,  the  reverend  sage  returned, 
Resolved  to  send  his  son,  a  ruddy  youth, 
And  learn  how  Israel  fared  ;  his  bosom  burned 
With  zeal  to  see  the  war,  and  learn  the  truth. 
When  thus  his  aged  sire,  "  Haste  now,  my  son, 
And  bear  this  present  to  the  king,  and  greet 
Thy  brethren  three ;  learn  what  has  yet  been  done  : 
If  from  yon  giant  huge  they  still  retreat." 


DAVID   AND   GOLIATH. 


V. 

With  less  alacrity,  the  exile  just 

Released,  again  revisits  home,  where  all 

His  loves  concentrate,  than  did  this  youth  haste 

T'  obey  the  mandate  of  his  sire.     How  small, 

In  the  contrast  with  Israel's  weal,  then  did 

All  else  appear  ;  and  now  behold  two  prancing 

Steeds,  with  trappings  clean,  convey  young  David 

O'er  the  plain,  with  anxious  haste  advancing. 


VI. 

Enwrapped  in  thought  profound,  and  musing  o'er 
His  nation's  threat'ning  fate,  he  met  a  swain 
Whose  wild  and  rueful  look  betrayed  before 
He  spoke  the  anguish  of  his  soul ;  "  In  vain," 
Said  he,  "  in  vain  have  we  so  long  maintained 
The  unequal  fight ;  now  all  is  black  despair." 
Away  he  sped,  nor  would  he  be  detained  ; 
Then  David   sought   the  grove,  and  breathed  this 
prayer. 


VII. 

<'  O  thou  Eternal !  Awful  King !  at  whose 
Terrific  frown  scared  Israel  back  retires. 
Nor  dares  contend  with  his  opposing  foes  ; 
Deign  to  assist,  thou  Parent  of  my  sires, 


DAVID   AND   GOLIATH. 


And  lend  thy  gracious  aid,  while  I,  a  youth 
Unskilled  in  arms,  oppose  this  daring  foe  : 
So  shall  despairing  Israel  own  thy  truth, 
For  such  success  thou  only  canst  bestow. 


VIII. 
**  And  proud  Philistia,  who  with  impious  show 
Of  blind  devotion,  tauntingly  defies 
Our  marshalled  hosts,  shall  be  constrained  to  bow 
Submissive  to  thy  potent  arm.     Arise  ! 
O  God,  arise  !  for  thousand  ills  impend. 
And  save  the  tribes  of  thine  inheritance. 
Then  shall  our  ever  grateful  songs  ascend 
On  high,  and  timbrels  praise  thee  in  the  dance» 


?» 


IX. 

Increasing  ardor  glowing  in  his  breast 
Accelerates  his  speed,  and  now  in  sight 
Appears  the  inglorious  camp  of  Saul,  oppressed. 
And  in  its  last  grand  effort  put  to  flight. 
In  vain  he  greets  his  brethren  of  the  host ; 
No  kind  return  he  meets,  but  on  his  head 
Contumely  is  poured  ;  thus  oft,  when  lost 
Some  favorite  hope,  chagrin  appears  instead.. 


DAVID  AND  GOLIATH. 


31 


X. 

Much  like  a  torrent  their  derision  fell 

When  he  made  known  at  once,  his  noble  plan, 

That  he  alone  would  conquer  or  repel 

This  bold  invader,  foe  of  God  and  man. 

"  Unthinking  boy,"  said  they,  "  dost  thou  intend 

To  dare  the  fates,  and  shall  thy  arm  prevail, 

Thy  puny  arm,  say,  shall  it  thee  defend. 

Or  gain  success,  where  mighty  warriors  fail  ? 


11 


XI. 

"  Yes,  I  alone  will  venture  to  engage 
This  mighty  warrior,  whose  impious  breath 
Pollutes  the  sacred  air,  nor  shall  his  rage 
Intimidate  a  youth  who  dares  meet  death. 
For  once  a  lion  fiercely  did  assail 
My  trembling  flocks,  an  easy  prey  he  found, 
But  Heaven  assisting,  (who  would  not  prevail  ?) 
The  conquered  monster  quivered  on  the  ground. 


XII. 

"  So  shall  Goliath  fall,  even  though  his  ponderous 
Spear  were  thrice  as  massive  as  it  is  ;  nay. 
Though  his  terror-beaming  sword  with  wonderous 
Blow  could  fell  the  oak,  and  spread  dismay 


32 


DAVID  AND  GOLIATH. 


Through  all  the  trembling  forest,  still  this  hand 
Should   each  his  heart  uninjured,  and  preserve 
From  hated  tyranny  our  much  loved  land  ; 
Our  rights  again  enjoyed  without  reserve." 

XIII. 
As  when  some  sapling  oak  (secured  from  harm 
By  circumambient  hills,  which  o'er  it  rise,) 
Defies  the  fiercest  sallies  of  the  storm. 
And  rests  secure  when  the  rude  tempest  flies. 
So  did  this  noble  youth,  by  faith  discern 
A  shield  which  not  Goliath,  no,  nor  all 
Earth's   proudest  sons  combined,  could   pierce  or 

turn 
Aside,  to  make  him  tremble  to  his  fall. 

XIV. 

With  firm  undaunted  step  he  sought  the  brook. 
And  five  smooth  stones  selected  from  beneath 
The  limpid  wave  ;  these  in  his  script  he  took. 
Haste  Israel,  and  prepare  the  laurel  wreath, 
For  David  yet  shall  wear  it.     See,  he  meets 
Your  daring  foe  with  an  unshrinking  nerve  ; 
Sure  Heaven  inspires,  and  Heaven  ne'er  defeats 
Such  high-blown  hopes  in  those  who  truly  serve. 


DAVID   AND  GOLIATH. 


33 


XV. 

But  hark  !  the  giant  speaks  !     "  Who  dares  assail, 
With  such  menace,  Gath's  mighty  champion  bold  ? 
Am  I  a  dog,  and  shall  thy  staff  prevail, 
And  must  the  chilling  news  in  Gath  be  told, 
That  her  great  sun  has  set  to  rise  no  more  ? 
Must  Askelon,  so  long  renowned,  this  day 
Be  humbled  in  the  dust,  while  widows  pour 
Their  unavailing  sighs,  though  now  so  gay  ? 


XVI. 

"  But  shall  a  warrior  such  as  I  waste  breath 
On  such  a  despicable  thing  ?     Retire, 
Insulting  boy ;  or,  if  thou  seek'st  for  death. 
Thou  'st  naught  to  do,  but  to  provoke  my  ire, 
And  soon  thy  quivering  lips  my  power  shall  own. 
Yet  do  I  grudge  to  thee  such  lasting  fame  ; 
Since  all  who  witness  thy  expiring  groan. 
Shall  from  oblivion's  blank  retrieve  thy  name.' 


»» 


XVII. 
Here,  David  interrupted.     "  Thy  design. 
By  such  high-swelling  words,  is  but  to  fright 
Me  from  the  conflict ;  blasphemy  like  thine 
Shall  not  unpunished  pass.     Behold,  in  sight. 


DAVID   AND  GOLIATH. 


) 


The  servant  of  the  living  God,  whom  thou 
So  daringly  defiest ;  this  day,  is  he 
IVepared  by  Heaven  to  lay  Philistia  low, 
And  rescue  Israel  from  captivity. 


XVIII. 
'•'•  Wliat  though  gigantic  size,  with  pride  combined, 
Arrayed  in  massive  panoply  of  war. 
May  dare  the  fates ; — yet  shall  the  monster  find 
An  adversary,  dreadful  from  afar — 
This  day,  Philistia,  humbled  in  the  dust. 
Shall  own  that  Judah's  God  is  God  alone  ; 
He  will  avenge  us,  for  in  him  we  trust. 
To  hurl  the  proud  usurper  from  his  throne. 


XIX. 

The  raging  monster  shouted,     "  Abject  wretch  ! 
Well  dost  thou  merit  punishment  condign ; 
Nor  think  thou  shalt  escape ;  now  will  I  stretch 
This  potent  arm,  and  crush  thee  !    Know  't  is  mine 
To  spare,  or  to  destroy.     Nor  shall  the  God, 
Whom  thou  so  oft  invokest,  be  able  to 
Deliver  thee  at  all ;  but,  overawed 
By  me,  shall  leave  thee  overwhelmed  with  woe." 


DAVID  AND   GOLIATH. 


XX. 


Onvid  replied,    "  When  yestcrmorn,  aloud 
I'hrough  the  deep  vauh  of  Heaven  the  thunder  rolled  ; 
When  the  menacing  dark  sulphureous  cloud 
Seemed  fraught  with  rage,  destruction  to  unfold; 
Then  did  thy  god,  his  temple,  and  his  shrine, 
Alike  appalled,  each  trembled  to  its  base  ; 
But  Israel's  God — Almighty,  All-Divine — 
Commands  the  thunderbolt  and  it  obeys. 

XXI. 

"  See'st  thou  yon  glorious  orb  of  day,  which  rides 
Through  fields  of  ether,  gorgeously  arrayed 
In  dazzling  robes  of  light  ?     Mark  how  he  glides 
With  nice  precision.     Say,  who  hath  surveyed 
His  pathless  wond'rous  way  .?     'T  was  Israel's  God. 
He  from  the  dark,  the  silent,  fruitless  womb 
Of  ancient  night,  his  chariot  called  abroad  ; 
At  once  he  rushed  to  radiate  the  gloom. 


XXII. 

^*  But  why  select  yon  dazzling  orb  ?     The  world. 
With  all  its  vast  concerns,  are  in  his  hand  ! 
His  smile  bids  nature  live  ;  if  once  unfurled 
The  banners  of  his  wrath,  no  power  can  stand  ; 


36 


DAVID   AND   GOLIATH. 


And  shall  a  poor  dependent  wretch  like  thee 
Audaciously  defy  the  Eternal  King 
Of  FIcaven  and  eurth  ?     Reviler,  thou  shalt  see 
Thy  pride  brought  low,  even  with  a  simple  sling." 

XXIII. 

Goliath  shouted,     "  gods,  your  curses  send 
On  his  detested  head  !     Too  generous  J 
Have  been,  thus  long  to  let  thee  live  ;  attend. 
And  shudder  when  thou  hearest  my  last  reply. 
This  moment  I  commence  with  thee,  and  ere 
An  hour  elapse,  a  thousand  heads  shall  dance 
Upon  the  ground  that  quiver  now  with  fear. 
Bold  armor-bearer,  instantly  advance." 


XXIV. 

Firm  as  a  rock,  the  intrepid  youth  observed 

The  irritated  monster  toss  on  high 

His  massive  spear,  nor  from  his  purpose  swerved ; 

Undaunted  he  beheld  his  flashing  eye. 

With  true,  unerring  rifle  in  his  hand 

The  huntsman  bold  meets  with  the  raging  bear ; 

Pleased  at  the  sight,  he,  from  his  joyous  stand. 

Views  his  approach  with  joy  unmixed  with  fear. 


DAVID   AND    GOLIATH. 


37 


XXV. 

Nor  was  the  intrepid  youth  now  at  a  loss ; 

He  sKmg  a  stone,  with  stimulated  throw, 

Just  as  the  giant,  with  contemptuous  toss, 

Threw  up  his  ponderous  head,  and  bared  his  brow. 

Swiftly  the  little  messenger  of  death 

Sped  on  its  high  commission, — down  he  fell, 

In  agony  convulsed,  and  gasped  for  breath,— 

While  Israel,  shouting,  tolled  his  funeral  knell. 


XXVI. 

See,  on  his  vanquished  foe  the  victor  stands, 
And  severs  from  the  trunk  his  monstrous  head, 
E'en  with  that  sword,  so  fate,  so  Heaven  commands, 
Which  had  o'er  Israel  cast  such  fear  and  dread. 
But  mark  the  change  ;  the  circumambient  air 
Rings  with  reiterated  shouts  of  joy  ; 
Philistia  trembling  flies,  while  in  her  rear, 
Saul  all  victorious  does  her  ranks  annoy. 


XXVII. 
Little  did  Jesse  dream,  when  morning's  dawn 
Proclaimed  the  coming  day,  and  he  abroad. 
All  agitated,  paced  the  dewy  lawn. 
And  piously  invoked  the  Eternal  God  ; 


88 


DAVID  AND   GOLIATH. 


When  to  the  hostile  camp,  his  darling  son 
He  sent,  he  little  thought,  that  ere  that  day 
Had  closed,  such  laurels  should  by  him  be  won. 
"  Mysterious  Heaven ! "  was  all  the  sage  could  say. 

XXVIII. 
Thus  heaven,  by  means  we  cannot  well  define 
To  be  subservient,  does  often  choose 
To  work  and  to  effect  some  grand  design ; 
And  shall  that  poor  dependent,  man,  refuse 
To  acquiesce  with  heaven  ?     He  cannot  scan 
At  all  his  great  Creator's  works.     Nay,  more, 
Angels  with  awe  mark  how  he  deals  with  man, 
And  man  himself  should  tremble  and  adore. 


NOCTUARY. 


Now  dusky  eve  spreads  forth  her  silent  wing, 
Inspiring  thought  refulgent,  whilst  the  deep 
Blue  vault  glows  beauteous,  as  Eden  fair. 
How  calm  to  wa  ider ,  at  this  tranquil  hour, 
Along  the  dewy  glade,  and  deeply  muse, 
^^1/'lo  nature  undisturbed  finds  sweet  repose. 
\'no  )ai'd,  stilly  grove,  which  but  erewhile 
Reiteiirs-d  music's  sweetest,  most 
iMelodious  note,  now  silent  seems  to  frown  j 
Not  one  attraction  left.     Beneath  the  rich 
Exuberance  of  yon  hawthorn's  foliage,  or 


40 


NOCTUARY. 


Spiral  fir-tree's  bristly  shade,  securely 

Rest  the  feathered  choir,  while  sleep,  soft,  balmy. 

Renovating  sleep,  their  senses  lulls  ; 

And  dull  oblivion  revels  undisturbed. 

One  only  wakes,  't  is  Philomel ;   attune, 

Sweet  bird  of  night,  thy  most  exalted  lay  ; 

Now  listening  nature  the  joyous  song. 

How  calm  this  hour — not  e'en  the  poplar  leaf, 

So  prone  to  quiver  to  the  slightest  breeze, 

[s  moved — nor  yet  a  breath  disturbs  the  air. 

Along  its  pebbled  path  the  rivulet, 

Low  whispering  to  the  hollow  murmur 

Of  the  distant  waterfall,  responsive, 

Seems  adduig  new  solemnity  to  this 

So  solemn  hour,  nor  makes  the  least  discord. 

Reposing  nature,  now  in  sombre  vest 

Attired,  her  sweet  restorative  enjoys, 

And  with  fresh  vigor,  shall  pursue  her  course. 

So  some  tired  giant  feels  exhaustion  creep 

Along  his  boasted  powers,  he  seeks  repose 


NOCTUARY. 


4i 


In  silent  slumbers ;  and,  at  length  rofroshed, 
Awakes,  and  with  new  energy  proceeds. 


Night's  dreary  mantle  o'er  creation  spread, 
And  nature  hushed  to  rest,  is  deemed,  alas. 
For  blackest  deeds  the  most  propitious  hour. 
Deep  in  their  cave,  the  foul  receptacle 
Of  robbers  and  their  gains,  they  council  hold, 
And  plot  destruction  ;  their  spy  returning. 
Joyous  declares  his  tour  and  its  results. 
With  fiend-like  pleasure  in  each  lurid  brow, 
They  hear  that  an  adventurer,  laden 
With  gold,  after  an  absence  long  returns. 
And  will  be  where  the  lonely  ravine  skirts 
The  highway  side  at  such  an  hour  precise. 
As  the  fierce  lion  when  he  scents  his  prey 
Grows  fiercer,  so  this  base  nocturnal  band, 
Assigning  each  the  part  he  is  to  act, 
Contrive,  alas,  too  well,  the  infernal  plot. 
Forth  issuing  from  their  hideous  retreat, 


42 


NOCTUARY, 


Each  his  mortiferous  weapon  firmly  grasped. 
They  hasten  to  the  lonely  spot  where  they 
Design  to  perpetrate  their  awful  crime. 
Nor  wait  they  long  ;  the  unconscious  traveller 
Exults  at  thought  of  home,  nor  once  suspects 
The  hidden  dangers  of  the  dubious  dusk — 
'Till  their  fierce  leader,  with  stentorian  voice, 
Demands  his  purse.    Fired  at  the  rude  assault. 
He  draws  his  trusty  sword,  while  to  his  arm 
Stern  desperation  lends  its  triple  aid. 
When  the  pent  torrent  its  environs  breaks, 
And  with  impetuous  rush  the  precipice 
Descends,  regardless  of  protruding  crags. 
It  foams  and  thunders  o'er  its  rugged  path — 
So  our  determined  traveller  at  one 
Puissant  thrust  has  laid  their  leader  low  ; 
And  e'er  the  fierce  banditti  are  aware, 
The  reeking  steel  another  victim  finds. 
Who,  deeply  scarred,  falls  prostrate  in  the  dust, 
**  And  joins  his  leader  in  the  realms  below." 


NOCTUARY. 


43 


But  ah  !  how  shall  my  laboring  bosom  tell 
What  fate  decreed  ?     For  yet,  more  swift 
Than  thought,  the  fatal,  whizzing  bullet  flies, 
And  our  magnanimous  adventurer 
Lies  bleeding,  too,  at  his  assailant's  feet. 
To  nature's  every  generous  feeling  steeled, 
They  disregard  his  agony  severe. 
And  plunge  his  corse  in  the  adjacent  stream. 
Alas  !  his  loving,  his  ill-fated  wife. 
Unconscious  of  his  fate,  expects  her  lord  ; 
Counting  the  tedious  moments  as  they  pass. 
Prepares  the  cheerful  hearth,  and  for  the  while 
No  other  wish  remains  but  his  return. 
His  children,  too,  taught  to  expect  their  sire, 
Repel,  by  thousand  little  nameless  wiles. 
The  approach  of  sleep — alert  his  smiles  to  share, 
And  from  his  hand  receive  the  promised  gift. 
But  ah !  he  never,  never,  shall  return. 
No  more  your  lisping  accents  shall  pronounce 
His  coming,  while  the  half  ecstatic  glow 


44 


NOCTUARY. 


Seems  brooding  o'er  you ;  nor  shall  the  thrilling 
Music  of  his  so  welcome  voice,  ever 
Again  salute  with  joy  your  longing  ears. 
For  in  the  land  of  souls,  this  night,  he  lights 
His  lamp,  and  bids  the  world  a  long  farewell. 

Ye  ruthless  band,  shall  not  the  plaintive  cry 
Of  injured  innocence  ascend  to  Heaven, 
And  gain  a  hearing  there  ?     Shall  not  the  wild 
Heart-rending  shriek  of  widowed  loneliness, 
Awake  the  sleeping  thunder,  and  call  down 
Heaven's  fiercest  judgments  on  your  guilty  heads  ? 
Most  sure  it  shall.     He  who  has  sworn  to  plead 
The  widow's  cause,  from  whom  no  darkness  veils 
Your  complicated  crimes,  ere  long  shall  rise 
To  vindicate  his  own,  and  plead  their  cause. 
Sure  as  to-morrow's  morn  shall  rise,  to  chase 
Night's  shades  away,  so  sure  offended  Heaven 
Shall  at  your  hand  require  the  traveller's  life  ; 
Whilst  you,  convulsed  in  anguish,  own  your  doom. 


NOCTUARY. 


45 


Now  far,  far  in  the  northern  hemisphere, 
The  Aurora  Borealis  comes  to  cheer, 
To  dissipate  in  part,  night's  tedious  gloom. 
Partial  at  first,  as  when  the  early  dawn 
Portends  the  coming  day,  but  soon  aloft 
Each  spiral  form  ascends,  and  rising  high 
Illuminates  the  chambers  of  the  north. 
Commencing  there  a  wild  eccentric  dance  ; 
They  mock  the  eye  that  gazes  to  define. 
And  bid  the  gazer  wonder  and  admire. 


Dare  we  presume,  perchance  some  happy  band 
Of  that  innumerable  host  with  which 
Creation  universal  teems,  performs, 
Even  there,  some  part  assigned  in  Nature's  vast 
Economy,  whiisi  thousand  flambeaus  burn. 
And  in  succession  close  each  other  chase. 
To  radiate  the  thrilling  scene,  and  lend 
Additional  magnificence  to  this 
Aerial  theatre  vast.     Melhinks  our  eyes. 


!:     ( 


46 


NOCTUARY. 


(But  that  this  dark,  terrestrial  cloud  obscures,) 
Might  linger  here,  tracing  celestial  forms, 
Wrapped  at  each  movement  with  intense  delight ; 
Each  thought  of  earth  lost  in  the  rapturous  gaze. 
Nor  too  extravagant  to  believe  that  we, 
(But  that  this  gross  material  precludes,) 
Might  list  from  thence  the  music  of  the  skies. 
And  our  glad  voices  catch  th'  enraptured  song. 

But  see  ;  for  now  the  beauteous  queen  of  night, 
Through  s'^ftening  fields  of  ether  bends  her  way. 
Rejoicing,  though  with  crescent  half  concealed. 
Hither,  ye  Atheists  !  hither  turn  your  eyes. 
Nor  dare  to  disbelieve — mark  how  she  floats, 
Noiseless  as  time,  no  guide  to  point  her  way. 
Save  that  Almighty  hand  which  brought  her  first 
From  Chaos,  and  appointed  her  a  sphere. 
A  thousand  twinkling  stars  glow  in  her  train, 
Whilst  the  blue  vault,  luxuriously  grand, 
Kindles  our  love  to  him  who  spreads  the  sight. 


M  ' 


NOCTUARY. 


47 


Well  might  th'  immortal  Young — contemplating 
A  scene  so  grand,  so  picturesque  as  this, 
So  full  of  love — well  might  he  ask,  "  what  hand 
Behind  the  scene  put  all  these  wheeling  globes 
In  motion,  and  wound  up  the  vast  machine  ?" 
Nor  this  alone — perchance,  ten  thousand  more 
Perform  their  rounds  impervious  to  our  gaze. 
While  twice  ten  thousand  still,  exist  beyond  ; 
For  who  can  limit  an  Omnipic  arm, 
Or  dares  to  set  a  bound  to  Him  who  speaks. 
And  it  is  done  !  whose  smile  erects,  and  whose 
Appalling  frown  annihilates  a  world  ? 
And  whose  ubiquity,  unbounded  space 
And  universal  nature  joyous  own. 
What  but  Omnipotence,  could  hang  in  air 
Those  ponderous  worlds,  and  orbits  give  to  each  ? 
Keep  all  harmonious,  and  prevent  impinge. 
Roll  on,  fair  Cynthia  !  nought  can  interrupt 
Thy  peaceful  path,  thy  influence  benign 
Emit  to  Earth,  'till  thy  menology 


4^ 


NOCTUARY. 


Respecting  us  complete — we  hn.stc  away 
To  more  exalted  spheres,  nor  linger  here, 
So  fur  beneath  our  destined  place  of  rest — 
Here,  twice  ten  thousand  ills  beset  us  round, 
And  plainly  tell  ua  this  is  not  our  home. 
But  there,  an  ever-beaming  star  of  love 
Pours  soft  effulgence  o'er  the  happy  land. 
While  joy's  enlivening  banner  floats  around  ! 
Here,  Death,  the  fell  destroyer  of  our  peace. 
Has  dimmed  the  pure  horizon  which  surrounds. 
Mokes  our  sad  bosoms  heave,  and  wakes  too  oft 
The  yell  of  wild  despair.     Such  was  the  yell 
As  thou,  O,  Night !  can'st  witness,  when  the  flower 
Of  Egypt  fell,  a  prey  to  Pharaoh's  pride. 
There  might  be  seen,  the  aged  sire  whose  locks 
Showed  like  a  shepherd's  fleece  ;   whose  furrowed 

brow. 
And  waning  cheek,  bespoke  a  lapse  of  years 
Enrolled  on  his  record  ;  whose  bending  form. 
And  step,  averred  that  Nature's  reins  were  loosed, 


NOCTUARY. 


49 


er 


ed 


And  he  but  lingered  on  the  grave's  dark  brink. 
Yet  there  he  stood,  or  leaned  upon  his  stuff, 
And  all  the  horrors  of  bereavement  felt. 
Alas !  his  only  son,  the  stay  and  prop 
Of  his  declining  days,  lay  pale  in  death. 
Aghast  the  mourner  stood  ;  while  from  his  hand. 
Palsied  by  time  and  tremulous  from  fright. 
The  taper  drops,  extinguished  by  its  fall. 
With  tottering  and  uncertain  step,  he  gropes 
To  find  his  neighbor's  door  and  sue  for  aid. 
At  length  't  is  found — he  calls,  but  none  regards. 
When  entering  in,  heart-rending  was  the  scene, 
And  stupifying  horror  held  him  mute. 
For  there  the  female,  who  but  yesterday 
At  Hymen's  altar  blushed  perpetual  love. 
But  ah  how  changed,  clinging  with  maniac  force 
Around  the  lifeless  bosom  of  her  lord. 
Distracted  from  her  brow  loose  tresses  fell. 
And  deep-drawn  tears  propelled  each  other  forth ; 
While  on  her  gods  in  agony  she  called, 


50 


NOCTUARY. 


Or  shrieked  for  human  aid — when  gazing  round 
She  deemed  herself  alone — but  all  in  vain, 
The  still  cold  corse  grew  yet  more  ghastly  pale, 
And  deeper  shades  seemed  gathering  around. 

Appalling  as  the  dread  volcano's  roar. 
Echoed  the  voice  of  sorrow  and  despair 
O'er  that  devoted  land  ;  while  midnight,  black 
And  unpropitious,  magnified  the  gloom  ! 
Chill  horror  sportive  flapped  its  sable  wings, 
While  death,  in  all  its  variegated  forms. 
Entered,  alike  unceremoniously. 
The  kingly  palace  and  the  mud-built  cot. 
Here  lay  the  man,  but  yesterday  enshrined 
in  busy  life,  and  forming  plans  afresh. 
And  there  the  youth  just  bursting  on  the  world. 
An  hour  ago,  elate  with  highest  hopes. 
And  here,  where  midnight  revellers  convened, 
A  sudden  panic  fell,  as  well  it  might ; 
For  at  a  banquet,  death  appalls  the  most ; 


NOCTUAsiY.  51 

So  unexpected  then,  yet  there  it  came, 

And  claimed  its  victims  wiih  more  ruthless  hand. 

The  eye  of  beauty  languished  ;  roses  fled 

Its  cheek  ;  as  with  convulsive  bound,  it  sunk 

Forever  in  the  dull  cold  grasp  of  death. 

How  the  survivors  sickened  at  the  view  ; 

So  much  confusion  swelling  on  the  sight. 


But  hark !  loud  o'er  the  land  echoes  the  pang, 
For  innocence  itself  has  felt  the  stroke. 
And  echo  answers  the  maternal  moan. 
The  babe  just  climbing  to  its  mother's  knee  ; 
The  son  of  yesterday,  and  every  age 
That  intervenes,  fall  like  autumnal  leaves. 
And  on  those  bosoms,  whence  they  drew  support, 
Their  lifeless  heads  recline.     Happy  for  those, 
Methinks,  whose  timely  exit  saves  a  world 
Of  woe  ;  thrice  happy  they,  though  ignorance 
May  counterfeit  a  smile  of  sheer  contempt ; 
Though  superstition  shrewdly  shake  its  head  ; 
And  proud  sectarian  spirits  disallow. 


52 


NOCTUARY. 


I    ! 


Tell  me  the  lovely  babe,  who  yesterday 
Sat  playful  on  its  happy  mother's  knee, 
A  counterpart  to  innocence  itself, 
And  sweetly  smiled,  the  while  cherubic  grace 
Its  beauteous  brow  high  flushing,  while  it  drank 
Delicious  rapture  from  those  very  smiles, 
The  contemplation  of  its  loveliness 
Was  wont  to  raise  on  the  maternal  cheek. 
Tell  me  again,  that  yesternight,  writhing 
In  agony,  you  saw  the  nursling  fair, 
And  marked  the  approach  of  death.     Its  visage  now 
Was  pallid,  and  those  eyes  which  but  erewhile 
Beamed  with  transcendent  beauties,  dimly  shone. 
And  that  the  reckless  monarch  of  the  grave. 
Regardless  of  a  tender  mother's  sighs 
And  tears,  which  fell  profusely  o'er  its  couch, 
Seized  the  oweet  bud  and  hurried  it  away. 
And  all  the  sad  narration  1  must  b'lieve 
Implicitly,  for  so  the  pr.stine  curse' 
And  so  the  disobc  dience  of  our 


i  ! 


NOCTUARY. 


sn 


Unwary  representative  requires. 

To  the  celestial  mansions  other  path 

To  none  remains,  excepting  that  which  leads 

Down  to  the  dark  and  lonely  vale  of  death. 


But  tell  me  that  its  infant  spirit  now, 
Fraught  largely  with  excruciating  pains, 
Yells  in  despair !     Then  hasten  to  proclaim. 
Even  with  the  same  unhallowed  impious  breath, 
That  all  religiori  is  an  idle  farce. 
More  plausible  the  rash  assertion  were. 
Rather  would  I  believe,  (though  more  absurd,) 
That  death  puts  an  extinguisher  upon 
The  vital  lamp,  and  naught  remains  of  man  ; — 
Or  that  this  system  of  creation  sprung 
From  ancient  chaos  of  its  own  accord, 
Than  once  to  harbor  the  prepost'rous  thought. 
What,  the  lovely  babe  blown  into  life,  perhaps 
A  few  short  months  ;  perchance  a  single  day  ; 
Unconscious  whence  its  origin,  or  what 


[  I 


54 


NOCTtTARY, 


i  i 


1     r 

i   ! 


i   ? 


Its  destiny  ;  unconscious  too  of  crime  ; 
Yet  to  perdition  endless  doomed  at  once  ;— 
Companion  to  the  base  perfidious  wretch 
Who  by  a  fiendlike  effort  has  suppressc^d 
The  last  restraining  spark ;  who  yesternight, 
In  proud  defiance  both  of  God  and  man, 
Ascended  to  the  couch  of  his  true  friend 
And  benefactor  bounteous,  and  with 
A  worse  than  fiendlike  fury  recklessly 
Deprived  him  of  his  honor  and  his  life. 
And  is  this  infamous  detested  wretch 
Companion  fit  for  innocence  itself? 
Revolting  nature  instantly  forbids. 
And  back  recoils  ;  at  the  assertion  frowns  ; 
And  shudders  at  the  base  preposterous  thought. 


!   > 


MANIAC. 


I 


Behind  a  blue  mountain  the  sun  was  declining, 
And  half  veiled  his  disk  in  a  cloud  that  o'erhung 
The  western  horizon  ;  yet  eastward,  still  shining 
As  when  music's  tones  through  each  avenue  rung, 
With  the  mist  of  the  mountain  next  moment  't  was 

blending. 
And  sunshine's  allurements  were  silently  ending ! 
Fast  gathering  shadows  o'er  Nature  low  pending, 
Around  each  promontory  solemnly  clung. 


56 


MANIAC. 


II. 

And  fast  through  the  forest  the  darkness  was  stealing, 
Around  a  poor  female  whose  reason  had  flown — 
Whose  dark,  flashing  eye,  a  wild  frenzy  revealing, 
Sought  a  path  to  return,  but  alas  !  there  was  none. 
As  wanders  the  barque,  when  her  rudder  has  failed 

her. 
She  had  wandered,  unconscious,  'till  hunger  assailed 

her; 
Some  wild  berries,  only,  that  day  had  regaled  her ; 
She  was  scared,  and  bewildered,  and  faint,  and  alone. 


III. 

And  yet  there  was  one,  whose  friendship  is  stronger 
And  nobler  than  man's,  l^  it  told  to  his  shame  : 
Proud  reason  may  scoff  me,  but  yet  I  do  n't  wrong 

her. 
For  friendship  is  now  little  more  than  the  name. 
I  say  there  was  one,  on  a  moss  bed  reclining, 
And  wistfully  gazing,  or  plaintively  whining. 
All  sympathy's  softest  emotions  entwining  : 
Be  its  garb  ne'er  so  rude,  Friendship  still  is  the  same. 


MANIAC. 


57 


IV. 

'T  was  dark !  the  grim  owl  in  a  pinetop  was  hooting  ! 
How  wildly  the  maniac  answered  his  call ! 
And  deemed  herself  then  with  some  spirit  disputing, 
'Mid  the  lone  gothic  ruins  of  some  haunted  hall. 
'Twas  as  when,  in  strange  slumbers,  at  midnight 

we  're  dreaming. 
With  terrors  gigantic  each  vision  is  teeming  ; 
We  fancy  broad  shadows  or  lights  strangely  gleaming. 
Such  terrors  wild  fancy  is  prone  to  forestall. 


V. 

And  now,  through  the  forest  was  fitfully  roving, 
The  short  flitting  night-winds  that  float  from  the  west. 
Now  they  kissed  the  green  branches,  then  left  the 

leaves  moving, 
Now  shook  her  loose  tresses,  then  laid  them  at  rest. 
When  suddenly  starting  and  gazing  around  her — 
She    shrieked,  and   those   echoes  she   roused   did 

astound  her. 
'T  was  cruel,  ye  echoes,  to  wake  and  to  wound  Aer, 
In  whose  bosom  sorrows  profusely  were  pressed. 


'I 
if 


58 


MANIAC. 


VI. 

Ah,  who  would  have  dreamed,  when  the  sacred  light 

o*er  thee 
First  cheerfully  played,  as  it  streamed  from  afar. 
When  it  chased  the  big  shadows  of  night  from  before 

thee. 
And  hailed  thy  life's  dawn  as  a  just  waking  star — 
Could  envy  itself,  through  the  joy  and  the  splendor 
Of  that  natal  hour,  without  one  to  defend  her, 
Have  descried  poor  Jessina,  with  none  to  befriend 

her — 
Her  charms  all  extinguished  by  sorrow's  deep  scar  ? 


VII. 
Or,  when  the  full  morning  of  life  round  her  glowing. 
The  germ  intellectual  began  to  expand 
Assiduous  tenderness  ever  bestowing 
Each  fostering  care  which  those  blossoms  demand  ; 
When  at  morning  it  watered  the  floweret  so  gay. 
And  anxiously  pruned  the  wild  branches  away, 
'Till  the  full  blooming  flower  at  length  did  repay 
The  cares  and  the  toils  of  that  fostering  hand. 


MANIAC. 


VIII. 

Who  M  have  thought  that  a  frost  even  then  was 

descending, 
To  sear  its  pure  leaves  and  extinguish  its  bloom, 
When  fondness  paternal  was  over  her  bending  ? 
Did  it  dream  she  should  fill  such  a  premature  tomb  ? 
Ah,  no  !     But  our  joys  unsubstantial  and  porous. 
We  think  them  secured ;  then  they  flit  from  before 

us : 
To  a  sense  of  earth's  meanness  such  trials  restore  us, 
More  permanent  joys  we  adopt  in  its  room. 


IX. 

But  where  is  Jessina  ?     Alone,  in  yon  forest. 
She  laughs,  then  she  weeps — to  wild  frenzy  a  prey  ; 
(Of  all  our  bereavements  't  is  surely  the  sorest 
When  reason  abandons  us,  hastening  away.) 
Yet  her  canine  companion,  still  watchful  as  ever. 
Whose  faithfulness  no  situation  could  sever. 
To  calm  her  rude  fears  used  his  every  endeavor. 
Or  chased  night's  dark  prowlers  with  deep  sounding 
bay. 


60 


MANIAC. 


ill 


X. 

'T  was  midnight !  she  slept,  and  perchance  she  was 

dreanning 
Of  youth,  and  youth's  pleasures,  forever  gone  by — 
When  joy's  fairy  mantle  around  her  was  streaming, 
Nor  shrouded  one  pang  that  could  waken  a  sigh  ; 
For  dreams  oft  revive  the  sad  soul  when  in  trouble  ; 
Each    pleasing    remembrance    how    sweetly   they 

double, 
For  the  hours  seem  returned,  but  quick  as  a  bubble 
That  floats  but  to  vanish — they  flit  from  our  eye. 


XI. 

As  the  rainbow  which  dazzles  the  eye  that  beholds  it, 

The  dark  misty  cloud  the  next  moment  inurns  : 

As  the   sparrow,  which  flits  from   the   hand  that 

enfolds  it. 
Is  lost  in  the  forest,  nor  ever  returns  : 
So  fled  from  the  lovely  Jessina,  at  waking. 
The  soft  sunlit  vision,  and  left  her  heart  aching ; 
As  one  who  a  last  flnal  farewell  is  taking 
Of  all  he  once  loved,  from  the  scene  madly  turns. 


MANIAC. 


61 


XII. 
But  ah,  she  was  chilled  ;  and  her  fragile  form,  hend- 

ing 
Beneath  the  stern  pressure  of  Fate's  dread  decree, 
As  the  cedar,  when  autumn's  dark  storms  are  de- 
scending. 
Yields  at  length  to  the  blast  and  is  hurled  to  the  lee  ; 
Though  deeply  impressed  on  the  page  of  its  story 
Are  storms,  which  in  vain  sought  to  humble  its  glory. 
Yet  now  it  must  yield  to  the  gale's  gathered  fury, 
And  let  the  winds  rave  unobstructed  and  free. 


XIII. 
Perhaps  at  that  moment,  her  reason  returning, 
Awaked  from  a  trance,  saw  the  truth  of  the  scene — 
Perchance  breathed  a  prayer,  while  the  lamp  was 

yet  burning. 
And  met  nature's  tyrant  all  calm  and  serene. 
A  view  of  those  fields  where  unclouded  joys  centre, 
Where  sorrow,  nor  sighing,  nor  pain,  ever  enter ! 
Perhaps  at  that  moment  in  mercy  was  lent  her, 
Though  Jordan's  dark  biliOW  still  lingered  between  ! 


08 


MANIAC. 


XIV. 

To  flow  from  her  heart  the  warm  life-blood  was 
ceasing, 

And  stopped — in  each  avenue  slowly  congealed  ; 

Then  quick  rallied  back,  each  pulsation  increasing, 

'Till  the  whole  nervous  fabric  in  wild  tumult  reeled. 

A  wild  wandering  flush  o'er  that  cheek  madly  stray- 
ing, 

Where  Death's  dreary  paleness  next  moment  was 
staying. 

And  just  as  day  dawned,  nature's  mandate  obeying, 

She  breathed  her  last  sigh,  and  the  flat  was  scaled  ! 


XV. 

No  father  stood  by  her,  love's  sacred  page  searching, 
Or  in  her  behalf  breathed  to  Heaven  a  vow ; 
No  mother,  to  moisten  that  lip  that  was  parching, 
Nor  sister,  to  wipe  the  cold  damps  from  her  brow  ; 
No  lover  stung  deeply  by  keen  anguish  started. 
And  wept,  ah,  she's  gone,  when  her  spirit  departed. 
As  o'er  her  he  bent,  more  than  half  broken  hearted  ; 
Nor  friend  closed  her  eyes,  dim  and  lustreless  now. 


MANIAC. 


63 


XVI. 

But  though  neither  father,  nor  mother,  nor  sister, 
Nor  'ever,  nor  frienf^  stood  to  weep  or  to  pray, 
Think  not  that  she  wandered  with  none  to  assist  her 
When  passing  that  valley  where  dark  shadows  stay. 
For  a  bright  troop  of  angels  just  over  her  hahed, 
And  scared  the  foul  fiends,  from  whose  gaze  she 

revolted  ; 
Then  echoed  their  harps  to  a  strain  more  exalted, 
As  they  bore  her  pure  spirit  in  triumph  away. 


XVII. 

Jessira,  farewell ;  at  the  home  of  thy  fathers. 

Reposing  in  peace,  thou  hast  learned  to  obey  ; 

No  more   shall   the  child,  as   the  wild   flowers   it 

gathers. 
Be  scared  at  thy  footsteps  and  hasten  away  ; 
No  fantasies  wild  in  thy  soft  bosom  revel. 
Thy  charms  so  transcendant  conspiring  to  level. 
Nor  more  shall  rude  night  winds  thy  tresses  dishevel, 
When  wrapped  in  the  glories  of  Heaven's  pure  day. 


64 


MANIAC. 


XVIII. 
Jessina,  farewell ;  no  more  shall  the  sorrows, 
Which  darkened  thy  life,  hover  over  thee  now  ; 
E'en  the  view  retrospective,  which  memory  borrows. 
Is  calm  as  the  sunshine  which  plays  on  thy  brow. 
No  more  like  the  barque  on  u  storm  ridden  ocean. 
Urged  on  by  the  waves  in  tempestuous  ctrimotion, 
But  safe  in  that  haven  of  peace  and  devot.on 
Where  joy-enwrapped  spirits  submissively  bow. 


MY  BROTHER, 


October  suns  poured  tides  of  yellow  light 
Upon  the  fading  fields,  and  forests  too, 

Whose  answering  tinge  beat  back  upon  the  sight, 
And  gave  each  sunlit  scene  a  golden  hue. 

Save  where  the  stately  spruce  and  pine  tree  reared 
Their  daring  heads,  with  foliage  thick  between, 

On  these  no  change  since  summer's  noon  appeared, 
Unless  perhaps  a  more  determined  green. 

Here  the  firm  maple  shov  ed  its  reddened  leaf, 
And  there  the  angry  beech  its  foliage  tossed  ; 

Here  stood  the  willow  wrapped  in  silent  grief, 
And  there  the  fir-tree  dared  the  coming  frost. 


66 


MY    BROTHER. 


The  whit'ning  pine  whose  verdure  long  had  flown, 
(Emblem  of   man  when  youth's   gay   dream   is 
past,) 

On  the  far  distant  mountain  stood  alone, 
A  sombre  shadow  o'er  its  branches  cast. 

Oft  have  I  gazed,  at  such  autumnal  hour. 

O'er  hills  and  fields,  with  varying  groves  between, 

Admired  the  landscape,  and  confessed  the  power 
Who  gave  us  such  variety  of  scene. 

No  dull  monotony  to  tire  the  sense 

On  nature's  ever  varying  face  appears ; 

No  gushing,  instant  change,  to  give  oaence, 
Or  fill  the  pleased  admiring  eye  with  tears. 

But  as  the  dewy  gleam  of  morn,  afar. 
Brightens  at  length  into  meridian  blaze. 

Then  gradually  declines,  and  leaves  the  star 
Of  eve  alone  to  guide  the  deepening  maze. 


So  ever  changing  nature,  to  the  man 

Who  will  contemplate,  spreads  an  ample  field. 

And  bids  our  finite  powers  attempt  to  scan. 
Else  surely  were  the  view  from  us  concealed. 


■a?!!; 


T\ 


MY    BROTHER. 


67 


'Twas  thus  I  gazed,  nor  for  a  moment  dreamed 
How  soon  a  cloud  of  sorrow  should  descend, 

And  hide  far  from  me  one  so  much  esteemed. 
He  was  my  brother ;  more,  he  was  my  friend. 

Ye  who  have  stood  beside  the  dying  bed 

Of  one  whose  life  seemed   twining   round   your 
own, 

Marked  the  dim  shadows  gathering  o'er  his  head. 
And  felt  Hope's  lingering  gleam  forever  flown — 

You  only  know  the  deep  and  thrilling  smart. 
Which  like  gigantic  terrors  in  a  dream, 

Hung  darkening  shadows  round  this  aching  heart. 
And  dimmed  the  lustre  of  its  mid-day  beam. 

Not  that  I  loved  him  more  than  others  loved. 
Or  felt  the  pang  more  sensibly  than  they  ; 

For  father,  mother,  sisters,  brothers  proved 
Equal  bereavement  on  that  parting  day. 


Awhile  we  hoped  that  health  might  yet  return 
To  give  his  pallid  cheek  its  wonted  bloom — 

To  check  our  tears,  and  bid  us  cease  to  mourn, 
And  save  the  loved  one  from  an  early  tomb. 


68 


MY   BROTHER. 


But  ah !  too  soon  our  every  hope  proved  vain ; 

Too  soon  we  saw  his  days  were  but  a  span, 
While  round  his  couch,  unable  to  refrain, 

We  wept  in  concert  o'er  the  dying  man. 

Well  might  we  grieve,  for  his  intrinsic  worth. 
From  us  concealed,  we  knew  not  how  to  prize  ; 

'T  was  like  an  evening  sun,  just  bursting  forth 
Beneath  a  cloud,  to  soar  in  other  skies. 

No  lapse  of  time  shall  from  our  bosoms  chase. 
Or  dim  the  fond  remembrance  of  that  day. 

When,  with  a  mien  fraught  with  cherubic  grace, 
He  told  us  how  he  longed  to  be  away. 

Then  checked  the  impetuous  ardor  of  his  soul. 
And  chid  his  own  impatience  as  a  crime, 

Gave  back  that  glimpse,  as  'prematurely  stole. 
Resigned  to  wait  his  Heavenly  Father's  time. 


Well  did  he  mark  the  copious  flow  of  tears 
Parental  fondness  poured  around  his  head, — 

The  patient  sufferer  calmed  their  rising  fears. 
Resigned  his  breath  and  joined  the  mighty  dead. 


-^ 


MY    BROTHER. 


Forgive  those  tears  ;  for  not  around  their  board 
Remains  a  plant  so  promising  and  fair ; 

And  I  too  wept.  His  heart  was  richly  stored, 
And  friendship's  fairest  hopes  were  budding  there. 

Ah  !  me,  and  must  those  hopes  forever  fall  ? 

My  thrilling  breast  be  hushed ;  thou  needst  not 
start ; 
Time's  rolling  chariot  never  can  recall 

One  hour's  sweet  converse,  to  revive  this  heart. 

Till  from  this  vale  of  unsubstantial  things, 

I  too  shall  soar,  a  liberated  soul ; 
Borne  o'er  Elysian  fields  on  gold-tipped  wings, 

Where  floods  of  bliss  serene  incessant  roll. 

My  fancy  paints  thy  sparkling  eyes  of  fire, 
And  hears  me  bid  thee  welcome  to  the  skies  ; 

Then  strike  thy  golden  harp  amid  the  choir, 
While  echo  wakes  her  thousand  symphonies. 


But  what  am  I — charmed  with  a  dream  so  rare  ; 

One  moment  wrapt  in  pure  ethereal  joys ; 
The  next,  bowed  down  to  earth,  and  grovelling  there, 

Involved  amid  its  sublunary  toys. 


70 


MY    BROTHER. 


Thus  soars  the  lark,  as  if  to  meet  the  skies, 

And  chaunts  her  dulcet  h3'mn,  to  cheer  the  morn. 

Her  song  has  ceased  ;  she  sloops  to  seize  a  prize, 
A  prize  how  mean, — 't  is  but  a  barley  corn. 

Then  fare  thee  well ;  friend  of  my  soul,  farewell ! 

Scarce  would  I  call  thee  from  yon  blissful  spheres ; 
But  ah  !  forgive  arfTection's  aching  swell, 

When  as  I  pass,  yon  lowland  shade  appears. 

There  stands  the  elm,  the  maple  and  the  furz, 
And  there  the  stream  glides  smoothly  as  before, 

Save  when  some  crossing  zephyr  gently  stirs 
Its  curling  surface,  to  the  grass-bound  shore. 

But  where  is  he  who  sat  beneath  the  shade. 
Contemplating,  well  pleased,  those  passing  tides  ? 

Alas !  forever  from  those  pastures  strayed, 
While  deep  and  sullen  loneliness  presides. 


The  sorrowing  child  whose  favorite  bird  has  flown. 
Weeps  as  it  views  the  solitary  cage. 

Pensively  musing,  deems  itself  alone. 
And  naught  but  time  its  sorrows  can  assuage. 


MY   BROTHER. 


71 


T  is  thus  I  gaze  on  yon  deserted  bowers, 
And  sigh  for  seasons  now  forever  past, 

When  friendship\s  boon  hung  o'er  the  sunny  hours, 
Each  interview  more  pleasing  than  the  last. 

Again,  dear  shade,  adieu  !  though  I  remain 
Perchance  the  pilgrim  of  a  few  more  years, 

A  lonely  wanderer  o'er  this  lurid  plain — 
This  mazy  round,  this  labyrinth  of  tears. 

And  when  I  float  on  Jordan's  heaving  tide, 
And  hear  the  swelling  surges  round  me  roar, 

Then,  if  thou  mayst,  be  hovering  by  my  side, 
And  point  my  trembling  spirit  to  the  shore. 

And  O,  may  He  who  bore  thee  o'er  the  wave, 
And  tranquilized  the  oft  terrific  stream. 

Be  with  me  then  to  succor  and  to  save. 

And  make  my  death  like  thine,  a  pleasing  dream. 


EVE,  TO  THE  BIRDS  OF  PARADISE. 


I. 

Alas  !  and  did  one  disobedient  act 
Involve  in  all  this  wretchedness  the  race, 
The  lordly  race  of  man  ? — clear  stands  the  fact ; 
Nor  can  the  Atheists'  loudest  laugh  efface 
The  glaring  truth ;— from  that  thrice  happy  place, 
Where  oft  celestial  hallelujahs  rung, 
Compelled  to  flee  ; — those  steps  ne'er  to  retrace  ; 
Thus  wept  fair  Eve,  by  keenest  sorrow  stung. 
While  round  her  lovely  face  loose  auburn  tresses 
hung. 


: 


EVE,    TO    THE    BIRDS    OF    PARADISE. 


73 


II. 

'*  Ah,  me !  how  shall  I  dare  to  lift  mine  eyes 
Again,  after  this  baneful  act ;  for  now 
A  thousand  dangers  press  me  ;  fear,  surprise, 
And  shame,  the  dire  effects  of  sin — allow 
Me  no  repose.     Ah  !  never  more,  with  brow 
All  placid  and  serene,  with  heart  at  ease. 
With  pure  unsullied  hands,  where  every  bough 
Echoed  the  voice  of  love,  ^midst  yonder  trees — 
Shall  I  again  enjoy  sweet  Eden's  balmy  breeze  ! 


III. 
"  Distracting  thought !  in  one  sad  hour  to  lose 
My  innocence,  with  every  luscious  sweet 
Which  flowed  along  its  path — nay,  to  infuse 
The  poisonous  drop  to  Adam's  cup  ;  't  was  meet 
That  I  should  reverence,  and  at  his  feet 
Ask  counsel ;  but  alas  !  instead,  a  base, 
Malicious  fiend  my  wayward  footsteps  greet — 
How  dared  he  enter  yon  thrice  sacred  place. 
And  such   distraction   spread   o'er  all  the  human 
race. 

6 


74 


EVE,   TO   THE   BIRDS   OF   PARADISE. 


IV. 

"  Garden  of  bliss,  farewell !  no  more  I  Ml  taste 
Your  luscious  sweets,  borne  o'er  the  flowery  lee. 
As  when  at  morn,  with  voluntary  haste, 
1  plucked  the  orange  from  its  spreading  tree. 
No  more  I  Ml  list  that  soothing  melody, 
Which  once  at  evening  lulled  me  to  repose — 
Thrice  sweet  your  song,  but  oh  !    't  is  not  for  me  ; 
In  vain  your  notes  ascend,  in  vain  the  rose 
Expanding  into  bloom,  around  its  sweetness  throws. 


I 


V. 


(( 


Sweet  birds,  farewell !  how  often  have  I  gazed. 
Delighted,  on  your  plumage  bright,  and  heard 
Your  choral  notes ;    whilst  on   my   hand   high 

raised. 
Sitting  serene,  all  beauteous  you  appeared. 
But  ah,  how  changed  ! — no  sooner  had  I  reared 
This  guilty  hand  to  yon  forbidden  tree, 
Than  all  appalled,  you  fled  me — strangely  scared 
At  my  approach.    I  stood  amazed ;  ah  me  ! 
How  did  this  trembling  heart  weep  o'er  its  destiny. 


4% 


EVE,   TO   THE    BIRDS    OF   PARADISE. 


7ri 


VI. 

"  Oh,  could  I  for  one  moment  back  recall — 
Those  blissful  scenes,  how  richly  would  I  prize  ; 
But  vain  that  wish  ;  for  never,  never  shall 
True  joy  again  be  mine — with  opened  eyes. 
Discerning  well  my  fate,  I  tremble  ;  twice 
The  tempter  I  repelled,  conscious  of  power 
To  stand  ;  twice  he  repulsed,  fled  Paradise, 
But  ah  !  to  machinate  new  lures  ;  the  hour 
When  he  returned,  alas !  deep  shades  around  it  lower. 

VII. 

"  Yet,  I  remember  well,  you  seemed  to  weep  ; 
And  with  suspended  song,  instantly  fled 
To  deep  recess  of  shades  ; — while  silence  deep 
And  awful  as  the  gloom  o'er  chaos  spread, 
Ere  yet  the  all  creative  mandate  shed 
This  radiance — working  night's  supreme  control. 
'T  was  stillness  audible,  deep  fraught  with  dread  ; 
Then  the  loud  tempter's  laugh,  and  eyes'  proud 
roll, 
Congealed  my  very  blood,  and  harrowed  up  my  soul. 


iM, 


H 


76 


EVE,   TO    THE    BIRDS    OP    PARADISE. 


VIII. 

"  Yet  oft,  when  sleep  seals  up  these  wearied  eyes, 
A  visionary  gleam  steals  o'er  my  soul ; 
Again  I  seem  to  rove  through  Paradise, 
Wreathing  its  lovely  flowers  without  control — 
Free  as  the  passing  air,  from  pole  to  pole. 
Borne  on  the  zephyr's  wing  ;  yon  glassy  stream 
Rich  with  delight,  where  clouds  of  incense  roll, 
Again  I  view,  and  all  is  joy  extreme — 
But  wake,  alas !  to  find  a  transitory  dream. 


IX 


(( 


Again,  I  woo  soft  soothing  balmy  f?leep, 
E'en  momentary  bliss  ; — so  sweet  to  taste, 
But  ah !  how  changed  the  scene  ;  some  craggy 

steep 
I  quite  exhausted  scale,  a  dreary  waste 
Conspicuous  beyond  ;  with  anxious  haste. 
And  palpitating  heart  the  wild  I  tread  ; 
At  every  pass  some  hidden  danger  placed — 
When  lo !  a  tiger  springs ;  I  raise  my  head. 
Scarce  daring  to  believe  the  chilling  vision  fled. 


EVEf   TO   THE   BIROS    OF    PARADISE. 


77 


X. 

*'  Thus  passes  many  a  tedious  sullen  hour, 
But  you,  sweet  Philomel,  no  dreams  affright — 
Perhaps  they  do^I  Ve  seen  the  eagle  lower  ; 
Nay,  all  creation  groans  its  woeful  plight. 
And  I  the  cause  ;  but  Ho  who  great  in  might 
Speaks  into  life,  has  promised  to  send 
And  bruise  the  serpent's  head — O,  what  delight. 
If  he  again  would  graciously  befriend — 
But  those  mysterious  words  we  cannot  comprehend. 


rASSAGR    OF    THE    RED    SEA. 


I. 

When  Israel,  from  Egyptian  thraMom  led, 
Began  their  inarcli  towards  the  promised  land, 

Au  all  accomplished  leader  at  their  head. 

Prepared  by  Heaven  to  take  that  high  command  : 

From  slavery's  hated  chains  witli  joy  they  fled. 
But  soon  on  ocean's  shore  appalled  they  stand  ; 

For  Pharaoh,  now  '..iraged,  their  exit  views. 

His  recent  plagues  forgets,  and  Israel's  host  pursues. 


i 


II. 

Loudly  they  to  their  leader  now  complain, 

'•'  How  daredst  thou  thus  on  innocence  impose  ? 

fiather  would  we  have  borne  the  tyrant's  chain, 
Or  auglil  that  tyranny  may  e'er  disclose, 


PASSAGE    OF    THE    RED    SEA. 


79 


Than  here  to  see  our  wives  and  infants  slain 

Hy  hauglity,  cruel,  unrelenting  foes." 
When  lo!  their  leader  calls  aloud  to  heaven, 
And  let  the  host  go  forward,  is  the  answer  given. 

III. 
Go  forward !  what,  and  rush  heyond  the  verge 

That  stays  rude  hillows  red  with  wild  commotion ; 
Can  he  support  us  o'er  the  heaving  surge. 

Or  must  we  sink  forgotten  in  the  ocean. 
While  screaming  sea-mews  sing  our  funeral  dirge, 

Devoid  of  bleeding  pity's  soft  emotion  ? 
But  see!  the  rod  is  stretched  by  heaven's  command, 
And  leaves  a  pathway  dry  walled  up  on  every  hand. 


IV. 
Mark  how  their  wondering  countenances  glow, 

While  hope's  rekindling  fires  each  bosom  warms  ; 
They  traverse  safely  through  the  depths  below ; 

Beneath  ausjvcious  Heaven's  extended  arms, 
Even  where  ten  thousand  perils  used  to  flow, 

Thev  safely  pass  secure  from  dire  alarms. 
At  length  all  safe  on  shore,  not  one  is  lost. 
An  echoing  shout  of  praise  aris'js  from  the  host. 


80 


PASSAGE    OF   THE    RED   SEA. 


V. 

Behold  proud  Pharaoh  down  the  slope  descends  ; 

His  charioteers  obey  his  loud  commands  : 
In  vain  he  strives,  for  those  whom  Heaven  defends 

Shall  never,  never  fall  into  his  hands. 
Vainly  on  his  magicians  he  depends 

To  stay  the  trembling  walls,  with  magic  bands  : 
His  hour  has  come,  he  sinks  among  the  dead  ; 
The  waves  puissant  roll  wild  tumult  o'er  his  head. 


VI. 

Now  ransomed  Israel  praise  the  Great  Supreme  ; 

Illustrious  gratitude  the  song  inspires  ; 
Worthy  art  thou  who  didst  our  lives  redeem. 

And  in  our  bosoms  raise  love's  purest  fires, — 
We'll  praise  thy  name  at  morning's  earliest  gleam, 

Nor  cease  till  day  exhausted  quite  retires ; 
Nor  shall  we  more  distrust  thy  sovereign  power. 
While  in  our  bosoms  live  the  wonders  of  this  hour. 


NEW  YEAR. 


The  cock's  shrill  note  awakes  the  new  year's  morn, 
And  night's  grim  retinue  abashed  rp*'res  ; 

Far  down  the  west,  with  half  extinguished  horn, 
The  pale  moon  yields  to  rising  eastern  fires. 

But  where  the  balmy  breath  inspiring  love  ? 

And  where   the   dew-drop  which  from   summer 
flows  ? 
Ah,  where  the  thousand  echoes  of  the  grove  ? 

And  whither  now  the  beauteous  blushing  rose  ? 


Beneath  stern  winter's  rugged  blast  it  lies ; 

The  birds  have  flown  to  more  propitious  climes, 
Where  even  now  the  breeze  of  summer  flies, 

And  memory  wakes  sweet  dreams  of  other  times. 


82 


NEW  YEAR. 


Thy  dawn  we  hail,  season  of  social  mirth  ; 

Joyous  we  meet  thy  coming,  festive  day ; 
When  seated  round  the  pleasure-beaming  hearth, 

We'll  quite  forget  old  winter's  iron  sway. 

But  where  those  friends  who  oft  with  us  have  joined  ? 

Their  youthful  glee  I  well  remember  now, 
When  music's  soothing  strains,  with  love  combined. 

To  chase  the  gloom  from  winter's  sullen  brow. 

No  more  we  listen  to  their  gleesome  voice,   . 

Or  catch  those  smiles  so  oft  awakening  ours  ; — 
A  more  exa'ted  theme  their  song  employs. 

And  brighter  scenes  arouse  their  latent  powers. 


And  is  it  so,  and  must  revolving  years 

Consign  to  earth  man's  vast  imperial  race  ? 

Arise,  my  thoughts,  arise  to  higher  spheres. 
And  labor  to  secure  a  resting  place. 


For  time,  untiring  time,  incessant  flows  ; 

No  interruption  cloys  his  busy  wheel. 
Our  joys  he  heeds  not,  nor  records  our  woes  ; 

Still  on,  and  on,  new  moments  to  reveal. 


NEW   YEAR. 


83 


He  sees  the  mourner,  weeping  o'er  a  form, 
Dearer  by  far  than  life  and  all  its  charms  ; 

The  mariner  contending  with  the  storm  ; 
The  warrior  struggling  mid  the  din  of  arms. 

The  thousand  whirls  of  fortune's  giddy  dance  ; 

The  love-lorn  maiden  sighing  to  the  wind  ; 
Yet  with  a  cold  disinterested  glance, 

Reckless  he  passes,  leaving  all  behind. 


'Tis  like  the  liquid  torrent,  as  it  glides. 
Regardless  of  the  hand  that  tills  the  ground. 

Hastening  to  blend  with  ocean's  heaving  tides, 
Till  lost  forever  in  the  vast  profound. 


COULD    SPIRITS. 


I. 

Could  spirits  immortal  look  down  from  above, 

And  see  what  is  passing  below, 
Would  it  not  interrupt  the  soft  chorus  of  love 

And  cause  those  bright  eyes  to  o'erflow  ? 
Would  it  not  check  the  ardor  that  glows  in  their 
song. 

And  cause  their  bright  sunshine  to  set  ? 
Or  at  least  bid  a  sigh  the  deep  cadence  prolong. 

And  mingle  one  pang  of  regret  ? 


COtLD   SPIRITS. 


85 


II. 

When  they  see,  (but  say,  where  shall  the  laboring 
breast 

A  disclosure  so  tragic  begin  ? ) 
When  they  see  the  lone  widow  and  orphan  oppressed, 

By  those  who  their  stay  should  have  been  ; 
When  the  hard  hand  of  .avarice,  grasping  its  spoil, 

Destroys  their  last  chance  to  subsist. 
At  his  thrice  iron  touch  their  sad  bosoms  recoil, 

Yet  their  all  may  be  found  in  his  fist. 


m. 

When  they  see  those  on  whom  they  once  gazed 
with  delight. 

And  fondly  regarded  as  friends. 
Pursuing  some  shadowy  dream's  whirling  flight, 

Where  folly,  still  laughing  attends  ; 
Or  lost  in  the  mazes  of  some  giddy  round, 

Where  luxury  holds  his  domain, 
Regardless  of  aught,  so  the  banquet  be  crowned 

By  mirth,  and  repeated  again. 


86 


COULD   SPIRITS. 


IV. 
When   they  see  even  those  they  were  taught   to 
revere, 

As  delegates  sent  from  the  skies, 
Enveloped  by  earth,  and  bewildered  by  care, 

Disregarding  the  race  and  the  prize, 
Yet  loudly  condemning  all  sects  but  their  own 

To  the  pit  of  oblivious  extreme. 
Because  those,  some  frivolous  tenets  disown 

Which  these,  firmly  hold  and  esteem. 


! 


V. 

When  they  see  pining  indigence,  humbled  by  want, 

Ask  a  pittance  with  trembling  hand. 
And  pampered  profusion  refusing  to  grant 

That  pittance,  though  all  at  command. 
When  these,  and  a  thousand  disorders  that  flow 

Through  life's  every  avenue  seen. 
Deranging  creation's  fair  system  below. 

Where  harmony  else  should  have  been — 


COULD   SPIRITS. 


87 


VI. 

Would  it  not  dim  the  lustre  that  beams  from  those 
eyes, 

Though  wrapped  in  refulgence  of  bliss, 
Or  can  they  behold,  void  of  care  or  surprise, 

A  scene  so  distracted  as  this  ? 
Or  are  they  encircled  by  joys  so  serene. 

So  ecstatic,  so  grand  and  sublime. 
That  they  never  revert  to  this  shadowy  scene. 

Or  dream  o'er  one  relic  of  time .? 


VII. 
Perhaps,  while  adoring  the  Great  and  the  Good, 

They  daily  behold  wha,t  earth  is ; 
But  with   passions  all   hushed,  and   with   wills  all 
subdued. 

And  enveloped  forever  in  his, 
They  may  fondly  contemplate  this  'wildering  chain, 

And  deem  it  harmonious  then  ; 
They  may  joyfully  touch  the  soft  chorus  again. 

And  shout,  halleluiah  !  Amen. 


THE  GRAVE. 


How  calm  the  grave  ;  no  anxious  gnawing  care 
Shall  more  disturb  the  placid  sleeper  there  ; 
No  more  the  storms  of  earth,  or  passion's  storm, 
Shall  touch  that  peaceful  bosom  with  alarm. 

How  calm  the  grave  ;  e'en  slander's  pois'nous  breath 
Is  hushed  before  the  mighty  conqueror,  death. 
So  when  the  'scaping  bird  floats  to  the  skies. 
The  hideous  wolf  resigns  his  wished-for  prize. 


How  calm  the  grave ;  borne  on  its  whirling  car. 
The  eddying  tempest,  like  the  blast  of  war, 
Rolls  o'er  thee,  and,  though  trembling  forests  fall. 
Those  sounds  can  never  reach  thy  quiet  hall. 


THE   GRAVE. 


How  calm  the  grave ;  though  tempests  from  afar 
Call  earth's  remotest  tribes  to  deadly  war, 
And  echoing  thunder  from  each  war-tube  spout, 
Thou  heedest  not  the  wild  tumultuous  rout. 

How  calm  the  grave  ;  yet  shall  the  period  come 
When  death  shall  yield  his  empire  o'er  the  tomb  ; 
Man's  conqueror  conquered,  and  forever  slain  ; 
His  dust  revives,  he  moves,  and  lives  again. 

How  calm  the  grave  ;  yet  when  this  scene  is  past, 
The  day  of  days,  though  lingering  till  the  last. 
That  day,  for  which  all  other  days  were  made. 
Which  leaves  them  too  as  shadows  of  a  shade. 

Shall  burst  in  grandeur  never  known  before ; 
And  the  last  trumpet  peal  from  shore  to  shore  ; 
Then  shall  the  haughty  ocean  madly  yield 
The  myriads  in  her  coral  caves  concealed. 


Then  shall  the  hallowed  dust  from  every  tomb, 
List  the  high  mandate,  and  exulting  come  ; 
And  Adam's  every  child,  of  every  tongue, 
Shall  stand  together  in  one  mighty  throng. 

7 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


1.1 


2.2 


^   us.    112.0 


1.25  1  U    ||.6 

^ 

6"     

► 

^1 


^ 


^ 


V 


Photographic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


23  WISr  MAIN  STMET 

WEBSTIR.N.i.  lA'\r.o 
(71«)«72-4S03 


^ 


%^ 


^ 


'  f. 


A  NIGHT  IN  THE  WILDS. 


^T  WAS  midnight,  and  the  weary  huntsman  slept 
Upon  his  boughy  bed ;  securely  too 
He  slept,  and  dreamed  ;  for  nature's  rugged  paths, 
Where  the  wild  moose  and  carraboo  abound, 
Were  his  delight.     His  soul  was  in  the  woods. 
He  slept ;  and  dimly  flickering  at  his  feet 
The  night  fire  wasted ;  while  the  waking  owl, 
Perched  in  a  pine-top,  bellowing  at  the  sight, 
Aroused  his  mate  the  mystery  to  solve. 
All  else  was  silent ; — the  adjacent  lake 
Was  curtained  by  a  cloud  of  silvery  mist ; 
A  fringe  of  various  foliage  overhung, 


A   NIGHT   IN   THE   WILDS. 


W 


And  decked  the  varied  shore  on  every  hand ; 

And,  save  the  murmur  of  a  tiny  stream, 

The  night-bird  only  stirred  the  deep  repose. 

Nature,  I  love  thy  solitude  ; — I  love 

Thy  wild  retreats,  by  mortals  seldom  seen  ; 

To  pause  beneath  the  variegated  shade. 

Where  hunters  lingered  centuries  ago ; 

Sires  of  a  race  whose  star  is  almost  down. 

I  love  the  cataract^s  low  continuous  roar 

At  early  morn ;  and  every  wildwood  scene 

Has  charms  for  me.    At  length  the  bird  of  dawn 

Piped  sweetly,  and  was  answered  from  afar 

By  the  shrill  whistle  foresters  well  know. 

Roused  by  that  early  call,  the  huntsman  rose. 

Stirred  the  red  brands,  and  waited  for  the  day. 

}3ut  why  that  pensive  sadness  ?  why  that  shade 

Of  sorrow  stealing  o^er  his  brow  ?     ^T  is  not 

His  wont  to  grieve  ;  what  now  has  moved  his  soul  r 

Ah !  he  has  had  a  dream  of  other  times, 

And  magic  memory  gave,  in  vision  back, 


92 


A  NIGHT  IN    THE  WILDS« 


S^ 


I 


A  pleasing  interview  with  one,  whose  soul 

Once  mingled  with  his  own  ; — their  hearts  were  one, 

Like  hearts  of  clansmen  in  the  olden  time  ; 

Yet  as  a  rosebud,  lovelier  than  its  mates. 

The  gard^ner^s  pride,  by  canker-worm  is  seized, 

And  doomed  to  perish  e'er  its  leaves  unfold, 

So  had  that  more  than  brother  fallen  in  death. 

Deep  was  the  wound ;  too  deep  for  time  to  heal, 

Save  for  the  rapturous  moments  when  restored 

Amid  the  soothing  sunshine  of  a  dream. 

But  day  approached ;  for  from  the  red'ning  east 

Came  streams  of  yellow  light,  and  chased  the  gloom 

Away  to  hidden  caves.    The  huntsman's  soul 

Was  roused  ;  for  in  the  rising  day  is  found 

A  charm  of  balmy  sweetness  to  the  mind. 

He  raised  his  horn ;  and  wildly  plaintive,  deep. 

And  clear,  and  low  and  beast-like  was  the  sound. 

Again,  and  yet  again  he  blew,  then  paused. 

Tossed  off  his  cap,  and  in  the  attitude 

Of  eager  expectation  leaned  to  hear. 


A   MIGHT   IN    THE   WILDS. 


98 


But,  save  that  echo  from  beyop^  the  lake. 
Her  wondrous  powers  of  imitation  tried. 
Naught  answered  to  his  call ;  yet  still  he  kept 
His  ground,  and  through  the  underwood  at  times 
Peered    cautiously,  lest  some   young    moose-deer 

should 
By  stealth  approach.     And  thrice  again  he  blew  ; 
And  thrice  again,  as  if  in  mockery. 
Did  echo  from  her  shadowy  halls  the  sound 
Repeat ;  and  deeper  stillness  reigned  around. 
Nor  did  the  huntsman  from  his  purpose  swerve. 
But  longer,  louder,  wilder  than  before 
Swelled  the  deep  notes  borne  down  upon  the  wind. 
At  length,  far  o'er  the  vale  a  sound  was  heard  ; 
'T  was  mild  and  low,  but  music  to  his  ear. 
Oft  had  the  antlered  monarch  of  the  wild 
Come  at  his  call ;  come  answering  too,  and  had 
Fallen  and  expired  beneath  his  deadly  aim. 
Onward,  and  onward,  crashing  as  he  came. 
And  answering,  as  he  thought,  his  forest  mate, 


94 


A   NIGHT   IN   THE   WILDS. 


i    i: 


The  iron-footed  monster  moved  along 

In  all  his  native  pride  ;  and  when  he  paused 

To  listen  for  the  sound,  which  to  his  fate 

Lured  him,  a  midnight  stillness  seemed  to  reign; 

Till  roused  again  by  the  dissembling  horn 

His  bold  response  was  heard,  and  through  a  copse 

Of  tangled  underwood  he  boldly  dashed 

With  wild  impetuous  rush,  and  proudly  stood 

Among  the  shrubbery  that  fringed  the  lake. 

Awhile  he  paused,  and  from  his  antlers  shook 

The   tangled    boughs ;    then   scanned   the    distant 

shore ; 
Perhaps  to  measure,  or  at  least  to  mark, 
If  aught  menaced  him  there  ;  but  all  was  still. 
Then  did  he  taste  the  waters,  and,  't  would  seem, 
His  wide  spread  antlers,  mirrored  from  beneath, 
Had  roused  his  pride  ;  for  when  the  mellowed  horn 
Again  fell  on  his  ear,  he  answered  quick, 
And  with  majestic  plunge  moved  nobly  on. 
The  rising  sun  had  waked  the  early  breath 


A   NIGHT  IN  THE  WIL^* 


95 


Of  morn ;  and  as  the  silvery  cloud  was  borne 

Along  in  broken  fragments  by  the  breeze, 

Between  the  floating  masses  as  they  passed, 

His  form  appeared  ;  and  much  he  seemed  at  home. 

His  deep  brown  antlers  waved,  in  sign  that  far 

Beneath  the  surface  powerfully  played 

His  sinewy  limbs.    Wide  from  his  heaving  breast, 

On  every  side,  the  sunny  circles  rolled. 

His  nostrils  all  distended  quaffed  the  air. 

And,  glorying  in  his  mighty  lungs,  he  rolled 

It  loudly  back  upon  the  wind.    At  length 

He  neared  the  shore,  and  bolder  gre  y ;  with  mane 

Erect,  and  eyes  reflecting  back  the  glare 

Of  day,  as  if  with  energy  renewed. 

He  onward  rushed,  impatient  for  the  shore. 


As  when  the  youthful  lover  views  afar 
The  barque  which  o'er  Atlantic  waves  has  borne 
The  loved  one  of  his  soul,  and  hails  its  near 
Approach,  so  glowed  the  huntsman's  rising  soul 


96 


A   NIGHT   IN  THE  WILDS. 


With  an  excitement  rapturous  and  wild, 

Beyond  what  ordinary  lovers  know. 

From  his  concealment  every  movement  marked, 

And  deemed  the  prize  his  own ;  and  in  a  trice 

The  noble  swimmer  with  a  bound  stood  firm 

Upon  the  margin  of  the  lake,  and  shook 

His  dripping  sides ; — when  lo !  a  bullet  passed 

Him  through  ;  yet  stood  he  firm ;  from  either  side 

His  life-blood  spouted ;  when,  as  quick  as  thought, 

Another  bullet  pierced  his  beating  heart : 

He  staggered  back,  then  forward,  stood  again. 

And,  mustering  his  remains  of  life,  he  looked 

A  proud  defiance  at  his  deadly  foe. 

And  fell ;  fell  heavily ;  for  from  his  wounds 

His  last  of  life  was  passing ;  not  a  sound, 

(Save  nature^s  deeply  drawn  convulsive  sob,) 

Was  heard  :  bravely  the  gallant  swimmer  died  ; 

Nobly  the  forest  ranger  met  his  fate ; 

He  struggled  not,  but  calmly  passed  away. 

And  as  the  huntsman  drained  the  ebbing  tide, 


A  MIGHT   IN   THE   WILDS. 


97 


And  marked  the  last  convulsive  thrill  that  shook 
And  quivered  through  his  giant  frame  ;  almost 
He  wept ;  but  rallied  quick  a  huntsman^s  soul, 
And,  covering  carefully  his  morning  prize, 
The  antlers  bore  triumphantly  away. 


TO  A  ROSE. 


When  Flora  sought  Vp»  lover  to  detain, 

And  bind  in  lastir        lins  his  wavVing  love, 

Awhile  she  wandered  pensive  o'er  the  plain, 
Or  sought  some  new  attraction  from  the  grove. 

There,  seated  *neath  the  woodbine's  soft'ning  shade, 
Her  subjects  hastened  at  her  plaintive  call ; 

Each  opening  flower  she  leisurely  surveyed, 
And  then  wast  thou  selected  from  them  all. 


Hope  flushed  the  goddess,  whose  delighted  gaze 
Shed  deeper  blushes  o'er  thee,  beauteous  flower ; 

The  sequel  proves  thou  didst  deserve  her  praise, 
Who  hailed  thee  queen  from  that  eventful  hour. 


TO  A  BOSS. 


99 


The  opening  rose-bud  decked  her  sno\(  y  brow, 
Diffusing  mellowed  lustre  o^er  her  charms ; 

Her  lover  owned  the  conquest — breathed  a  vow, 
And  clasped  th*  enraptured  Flora  in  his  arms. 

Some  wandering  swain,  far  from  his  blooming  fair, 

Musing  in  solitude  beneath  a  shade. 
Catches  thy  sweetness  on  the  passing  air, 

And  hies  him  where  thy  beauties  are  displayed. 

The  rising  blush  which  modesty  commands. 
So  soft,  to  tinge  the  cheek  of  her  he  loves, 

Fliis  o'er  his  mind  ;  he  half  bewildered  stands. 
Or  bending  o'er  thee,  all  thy  fragrance  proves. 


The  pearly  dew-drops,  trembling  in  thine  eye. 
Brings  to  his  mind  afresh  love's  parting  tear ; 

While  the  soft  breezes  which  around  thee  sigh. 
Like  love's  farewell,  falls  on  his  list'ning  ear. 

Well  pleased,  the  passing  spirit  of  the  breeze 
Is  hovering  o'er  thee,  e'en  as  Alwin  sings. 

And  doing  homage  on  h's  bended  knees, 
Deep  in  thy  fragrance  dips  his  dewy  wings. 


100 


TO  A  ROSE. 


And  when  compelled,  reluctantly  retires, 
Bearing  thy  balmy  odors  o^er  the  wild  ; 

Naught  that  he  meets  such  soothing  joy  inspires— 
Nay,  for  thy  sake,  he  deems  himself  exiled. 

When  lifers  eventful  noon  with  me  has  passed, 
And  down  my  path  the  shades  of  evening  steal. 

When  wild  ambition,  from  my  breast  erased. 
Disturbs  no  more,  but  leaves  it  time  to  heal. 


Calm  be  that  hour ; — and  mine,  to  taste  the  sweets 
W^hich  thou  art  wont  to  yield,  thrice  beauteous 
flower ; 

In  each  salubrious  walk  my  fancy  greets. 
Let  roses  bloom,  to  deck  each  scented  bower. 


ANGELA. 


CANTO  I. 


T. 


Reader,  of  course  you  've  heard — perhaps  you  've 


seen 


If  so,  of  course  you  Ml  believe  the  proverb  true  :^- 
"  One  wedding  brings  another  on  the  green ; " 

They  're  safe  enough ;  I  think  they  might  say  two ; 
At  least  I  've  known  it  so,  and  what  has  been 

A  thousand  times,  is  surely  nothing  new ; 
Though  not  perhaps  on  axiom  handed  down, 
And  sung  to  tatters  by  some  lowly  clown. 


II. 


m 


Proverbs  are  grand,  if  true,  and  chosen  well, 
And  used  by  those  who  know  when  to  apply  them  ; 

If  sound  our  reasoning,  at  once  they  tell— 

If  false,  they're  touchstones  whereby  we  may  try 
them ; 


'%" 


102 


ANCELA. 


But  half  of  those  extant  are  like  a  bell 

That 's  cracked ;  just  sound,  and  you  '11  descry 
them, 
Grating  discordance  on  the  passing  blast ; 
But  this  one  stands  while  love  and  ladies  last. 

III. 
Well,  as  I  said,  (or  meant  to  say,  at  least,) 

There  was  a  famous  wedding  once,  and  I 
Was  there,  and  honored  as  a  welcome  guest  ;— 

Though  I  'm  not  bound,  just  now,  to  tell  you  my 
Opinion  of  the  bride,  or  how  she  dressed, 

Or  if  she  blushed,  or  not — yet,  by-the-by. 
This  I  confess:  she  looked  well  pleased,  and  so 
She  might ;  marriage  is  honorable,  you  know. 


IV. 
Of  course  the  mother  dropped  a  tear  or  two ; 

Nor  be  surprised — maid-servants'  wstges  then 
Were  strangely  high,  and  she  could  neither  brew. 

Nor  bake,  nor  cook,  nor  sweep  to  please  the  men ; 
Perhaps  she  had  another  end  in  view : 

To  make  the  bridegroom  prouder  yet  again 
Of  his  sweet  prize.     He  smiled  much  like  a  Jew 
When  he  is  conscious  he  has  cheated  you. 


ANGELA. 


103 


V. 

1  love  a  wedding  dearly  !  how  sublime^ 

When  all  concerned  are  happy ;  and  you  must 

Remember  ^t  was  in  the  good  olden  time, 

When  you  might  dance,  or  sing,  or  safely  trust 

Yourself  a  glass  of  wine,  though  it  were  prime. 
New  fashions  now  have  laid  all  in  the  dust, — 

Knocked  innocent  amusement  on  the  head. 

And  substituted  scandal  in  its  stead. 

VI. 
Perhaps  you  M  like  to  know  the  bridegroom's  name ; 

But  that 's  of  no  great  moment  now,  and  so. 
Suffice  it  to  inform  you  that  he  came 

Some  ninety  miles ;  (I  do  n't  exactly  know 
The  distance,  but 't  was  thereabouts,)  to  claim 

His  lovely,  interesting  bride,  and  show 
To  all  the  world,  that  love  despised  the  cost 
When  such  an  object  must  be  won  or  lost. 


VIT. 
Amid  the  gaudy  group  assembled  there 

To  see  the  fun,  and  other  pretty  things, 
The  bridegroom  had  a  cousin — young,  and  fair. 

And  lovely  as  a  rose,  when  morning  brings 


104 


ANGELA. 


Its  dewy  pearI*drops  o'er  it ;  like  a  pair 
Of  purest  diamonds  ever  set  in  rings, 
Or  hid  in  ocean,  gleamed  her  witching  eyes- 
Some  thought  she  just  had  sallied  from  the  skies. 

VIII. 
Beauty  has  powerful  charms,  we  must  confess, 

And  dazzles  oft  the  eyes  of  the  beholder, 
Particularly  when  young ;  his  looks  express 

Confusion,  but  when  grown  a  little  older 
And  something  wiser,  you  would  scarcely  guess 

The  difference :  he  then  seems  vastly  bolder ; 
Like  young  recruit,  at  first  afraid  to  fire. 
At  length  nerved  firm,  to  conquer  or  expire. 

IX, 
Beauty  is  dangerous  too,  for  it  has  slain 

Its  thousands  and  its  tens  of  thousands  ;  long 
And  sanguinary  wars  which  almost  stain 

Humanity,  so  deeply  fraught  with  wrong, 
Have  emanated  from  it ;  yet  the  chain 

That  binds  us  to  this  sphere  would  not  be  strong 
Enough  to  hold  us  down,  were  beauty  fled, 
And  earth  would  be  by  sackcloth  overspread. 


ANGELJI. 


105 


X. 

Well  done,  good  Muse,  that 's  very  good,  if  true ; 

But  I  'm  suspicious  she  has  overdone  it ; 
(Now,  reader,  tell  me  candidly,  don't  you ?) 

This  introduction,  bless  me,  how  she 's  spun  it 
For  miles,  nor  ever  brought  our  tale  in  view ; 

You  Ml  think  it  time  she  had  at  least  begun  it. 
The  jade's  been  gossipping  of  late,  and  idle — 
She  's  like  a  nag  when  first  it  wears  a  bridle. 

XI. 

But  to  return:    I  think  we  said,  somewhere, 
She  was  a  beauty — well,  that 's  very  pretty ; 

What  next  ?  why,  she  had  lovely  auburn  hair. 
And  was,  at  least,  accounted  very  witty — 

And  this,  you  know,  is  something  rather  rare 

Of  late  ;  't  is  true,  there  's  stuffabroad  that 's  gritty, 

Base,  and  unprofitable  as  coin  that 's 

Counterfeit,  and  cast  to  *^  moles  and  bats.'' 


XII. 
There 's  something,  too,  in  wit  that 's  rather  pleasing 

If  dealt  in  sparingly,  and  if  always 
Directed  well ;  but  there 's  a  kind  of  teasing, 
(Allow  me,  if  you  please,  just  once  the  phrase,) 
8 


mmmm 


106 


ANGELA. 


i 


Which  I  detest ;  yet,  after  all,  't  is  easing 

To  minds  thus  overcharged,  at  times  to  raise 
A  laugh,  e^en  at  their  truest  friends^  expense, 
Whose  weapons  they  despise  ; — what  is  good  sense, 

XIII. 
Or  what  the  depth  of  reason,  to  defend 

Ourselves  against  such  mighty  foe  withal  ? 
Unequal  contest  to  be  sure ;  extend 

A  wit  some  pity,  or  you  '11  kill  us  all ; 
And  yet  beware,  't  were  humbling  in  the  end, 

Like  Lucifer,  to  catch  a  sudden  fall ; 
Our  gunp  turn  tardily,  but  brought  to  bear 
Your  cob-web  fabric  vanishes  in  air. 


XIV. 
But,  recollect,  I  would  not  for  the  world    ^ 

Have  you  to  think  that  Angela  could  do 
A  thing  so  rude  ;  rather  would  she  have  hurled 

Her  necklace,  costly  as  it  was  and  new, 
Into  the  passing  whirlwind  to  be  whirled. 

And  tossed,  and  lost,  and  rent,  and  dirtied  too ; 
Than  aught  to  cause  her  friends  one  pang  advance  ; 
And  modesty  can  every  charm  enhance. 


ANIELA. 


107 


XV. 

Her  dress  was  silk,  of  course,  and  very  fine, 
And  new,  and  made  in  the  first  fashion  then 

Afloat ;  't  was  said,  "  her  sleeves  imply  design. 
Twelve  yards  of  silk,  she  thinks,  will  please  the 
men  ; " 

But  they  were  wrong  ;  perhaps  there  might  be  nine, 
Or  thereabouts,  I  'm  sure  not  more  than  ten 

Contained  in  both  the  sleeves,  including  bows, 

Puffs,  pipes,  carved-work,  and  taps,  and  furbelows. 

XVI. 

Now  reader,  think  yourself  in  some  vast  wild, 
And  that  a  lovely  spot  had  caught  your  eye, 

Where  lilies,  roses  and  carnations  piled 
Profusely,  yet  arranged  in  order  high, 

Stood  blushing  fair,  and  that  the  sight  beguiled 
If  not  a  tear,  a  something  like  a  sigh  ; 

Then  of  her  head-dress  you  Ve  a  passing  view, 

And  the  effect  produced  was  like  it  too. 


XVII. 
But  foul  misfortune,  like  foul  wind  and  weather. 

Must  even  scath  Angela  us  it  passed. 
The  bungling  brute  who  stuck  her  boots  together, 

Had  surely  by  moonlight  the  pattern  cast, 


108 


ANGELA. 


1; 


Or  totally  forgot  to  stretch  the  leather ; 

Or  else  he  'd  formed  them  both  upon  one  last. 
'T  was  whispered  round,  "  she  has  a  crooked  foot ;" 
But  't  was  a  lie,  the  fault  was  in  the  boot. 

XVIII. 

And  things  were  said  a  great  deal  worse  than  this, 
Disgusting,  too,  and  very  ill-befitting. 

And  running  o^er  with  all  unrighteousness  ; 
For  envy,  like  a  sullen  bear,  sat  whetting 

His  horrid  fangs,  with  most  malignant  hiss. 

Much  like  a  goose  when  o'er  her  brood  she  's 
sitting ; — 

Or  as  a  mastiff,  hating  much  the  sight 

Of  smoother  dogs,  must  show  immediate  fight. 


XIX. 

I  'm  all  aback,  for  naught  that  floats  in  air. 
Nor  quadruped,  nor  monster  in  the  seas, 

With  base  old  envy  may  at  all  compare  ; 
So  we  Ml  just  take  the  d ,  if  you  please, 

Who  laid  for  man  such  execrable  snare. 
And  roused  that  curse,  of  which  we  quaff  the  lees : 

The  simile  is  quite  deficient  still, 

For  envy  bangs  the  deil — aye,  hangs  the  deil. 


ANGELA. 


109 


XX. 

At  sight  of  happiness,  like  him,  it  pines, 
It  languishes  and  sickens  at  the  view  ; 

Then,  as  a  serpent,  round  its  prey  entwines, 
Bracing  each  nerve  its  victim  to  undo. 

Yet  traitor-like  conceals  its  dark  designs. 
Under  pretence  of  friendship  firm  and  true. 

Detested  passion  ;  pitiful  indeed 

Are  those  who  cherish  thee.     But  to  proceed, 

XXI. 

Angela  wore  upon  her  snowy  hand 

Three  costly  rings,  composed  of  purest  gold. 

One  set  with  garnets,  showed  much  like  a  stand 
Of  full  wine  glasses  in  the  times  of  old. 

Ere  yet  was  chased  that  beverage  from  our  land 
To  warm  the  hearts  of  heathens,  leaving  cold 

And  cheerless  ours  ;  what  fools,  what  mere  foot-pads 

Our  sires  have  been  ;  we  're  wiser  than  our  dads. 


XXII. 
Suppose,  just  now,  that  one  of  them  returned 

To  take  a  secondary  view  of  time 
And   things ;   how   he   would   stare  when   he  had 
learned 
That  drinking  wine  was  counted  now  a  crime, 


no 


ANGELA. 


And  that  the  grape  and  wine-press  too  are  spurned 

As  tilings  unworthy  of  this  sphere  sublime. 
Would  he  not  ask,  "  and  do  they  still  use  bread  ?  " 
Then  gladly  hide  again  among  the  dead. 

XXIII. 
We  beg  excuse  for  this  and  these  digressions, 

We  Ml  catch  the  tale  anon  and  persevere. 
Those  rings,  of  course,  gave  rise  to  some  expressions 

Which  decency  forbids  my  quoting  here  ; 
'T  was  whispered,  too,  (I  blush  for  their  transgres- 
sions,) 

That  she  had  been,  for  better  than  a  year. 
In  Massachusetts'  gay  metropolis  ; 
That  was  enough  ;  they  piled  and  built  on  top  of  this. 


(( 


XXIV. 

Aye,  aye,"  said  one, "  that's  just  enough,  and  brings 
The  cat  to  view  ;  indeed,  I  knew  before 

A  farmer's  daughter  never  wore  such  rings. 
Unless" — but  I  'm  ashamed  to  tell  you  more, 

So  you  must  even  guess  the  other  things  ; 

And  while  employed,  guess  something  like  a  score 

Of  little  scandals,  there  was  that  at  least, 

Less  could  not  have  composed  so  rich  a  feast. 


;  ■ 


ANGELA. 


Ill 


XXV. 

But  reason  pours  for  us  her  floods  of  light ; 

At  once  we  see,  and  plead  Angela^s  cause. 
What  fools  they  were  ;  perhaps  some  lady  might 

Have  given  them  to  her,  merely  because 
She  was  so  pretty ;  surely  she  did  right 

Then  to  accept  them  ;  but  when  envy  gnaws, 
Its  votary  *s  like  a  horse  that  runs  away. 
Besieged  by  buzz  flies,  on  a  sultry  day. 

XXVI. 

(Save  in  your  presence,)  or  she  might  have  found 
Them  scaled  along  the  dusty  street. 

And  plucked  them  up  from  the  unworthy  ground. 
Assigning  them  a  situation  meet, 

Upon  her  soft  white  hand  ;  perhaps,  to  wound 
The  pride  of  an  offending  heir,  some  sweet 

Old  lady,  (softened  by  spleen's  many  drillings,) 

Had  given  her  the  rings  and  twenty  shillings. 


XXVII. 
Of  this,  however,  her  opposers  dreamed  not ; 

They  knew  but  little  of  the  world,  compared 
To  what  Angela  knew,  besides  they  seemed  fraught 

With  a  new  impulse  ;  modesty  stood  scared, 


112 


ANGELA. 


And  whispering  once  that  she  esteemed  not 

A  conduct  so  outrageous — disappeared. 
Angela  thought,  at  least  we  may  suppose  so, 
That  country  belles  were  not  exactly  so-so. 

XXVIII. 
We  now  must  bring  this  canto  to  a  close, 

As  you  Ml  observe,  the  lines  are  getting  brittle, 
And  leave  Angela  here  among  her  foes, 

(To  say  the  least  they  hated  her  a  little,) 
But  she,  regardless  of  their  gibes  and  joes. 

The  water  left  for  those  who  boiled  the  kettle  ; 
We  want  another  personage,  however. 
And  our  next  canto  shall  be  monstrous  clever. 


I 


* 


CANTO  II. 


I. 

Read£R,  you  Ve  heard  of  vessels  being  wrecked, 
In  consequence  of  being  overfreighted  ; 

Of  carriages  broke  down,  or  badly  cracked, 
Merely  because  their  strength  was  overrated ; 

So  I  was  wary,  as  you  might  expect,  * 
Fearing  I  should  be  equally  ill-fated, 

And  fall,  or  founder,  or  be  cast  away, 

A  sport  to  wreckers  and  an  easy  prey. 


n. 

Of  all  the  poisonous  serpents  that  infest 
This  sunny  earth,  those  wreckers  I  despise, 

Abominably  hate,  abhor,  detest ; 
^*  Wreckers  are  much  like  critics  in  disguise, 


114 


ANGELA. 


An  author  says  ;  I  think  he  is  in  jest, 

Or  on  the  line  even  I  would  criticise ; 
He  should  have  known,  indeed  *t  is  plain  he  knew 
Old  envious  "Clooty^s^'  self  should  have  his  due. 

m. 

We  know,  that  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten. 
Critics  are  nasty,  snivelling,  envious  things ; 

But  in  this  various  scene  of  various  men. 
To  fill  the  void  up,  from  baboons  to  kings. 

Was  requisite ;  old  Nature  wisely,  then. 
Merely  to  smooth  a  vacuum  on  the  strings. 

And  to  prevent  what  else  had  caused  a  jar. 

Shoved  in  those  minor  notes,  and  filled  the  bar. 


IV. 
But,  think  not  for  one  moment,  gentle  reader. 

That  we  all  critics  here  would  comprehend. 
No,  when  the  Muse  has  strayed,  some  kindly  leader 

She  will  accept,  and  hail  him  as  a  friend  ; 
'T  is  those  who  nourish  envy,  coax  and  feed  her. 

Striving  to  hinder  those  who  would  ascend 
Secure,  where  they  lost  footing  ;  those  are  they 
Whom  we  would  censure,  but  we  must  away. 


ANGELA. 


116 


V. 

So,  as  I  hinted  when  I  first  began, 

Knowing  my  barque  was  rather  rudderless, 

And  prone  to  leak,  with  but  a  single  man 
To  hoist  or  shorten  sail,  prepare  the  mess. 

And  work  the  pump  ;  we  thought  to  change  our  plan 
Were  best,  for  shipwrecks  and  the  like  distress. 

In  brief,  we  hate  distress  of  any  kind. 

So  half  our  destined  freight  we  left  behind. 

VI. 

Well,  at  this  rare  hymeneal  gathering,  then, 
There  was  a  youth  just  turned  of  twenty-one. 

Who  bore  his  part  with  matrons,  maids  and  men. 
To  grace  the  festival  and  share  the  fun ; 

His  name  was  Albert — he  was  mild  ;  and  when 
He  spake,  a  kind  of  pleasing  echo  ran 

Along  and  edged  the  words  ;  which  gift  you  know 

Dame  Nature  does  not  lavishly  bestow. 


VII. 
But  she  in  many  ways  had  been  his  friend  ; 

For  instance :  he  was  tall,  and  in  his  mien 
Graceful  as  a  young  poplar  ;  he  could  bend 

Obeisance  that  might  almost  charm  a  queen ;- 


116 


ANGELA. 


Music  and  dancing  in  him  seemed  to  blend 

Their  charms,  and  shared  the  precedence  between : 
Dilapidated  gaiety  may  stare — 
Yet  even  these  have  influence  with  the  fair. 

VIII. 
I  Ve  wondered  often  to  observe  old  men, 

Who,  by  the  way,  were  once  as  fond  of  fun 
As  we,  condemn  all  merriment ;  aye,  when 

Their  glowing  glass  of  gaiety  has  run 
Itis  hindmost  sands — they  wonder  at  us  then. 

Because  their  relish  for  such  things  is  gone. 
Yet,  after  all,  we  may  not,  dare  not  blame — 
Wise  as  was  Solomon,  he  did  the  same. 


IX. 

In  point  of  intellect,  he  was  perhaps 

One  small  degree  from  mediocrity  ; 
Besides',  he  had  some  well  selected  scraps 

From  famous  authors,  and  some  poetry 
By  rote,  or  rather  by  the  force  of  raps 

Blended  with  coaxing ;  for  his  memory 
Was  any  thing  you  please,  except  tenacious : 
How  strange  our  teachers   for  such  crime  should 
lash  us. 


ANGELA. 


117 


X. 

And  yet  they  do  it,  often  have  I  felt 

The  pang  arising  from  forgetfulness, 
'Till  once  aroused,  1  lent  Syntax  a.  pelt 

Or  two,  yet  he  obtained  complete  redress. 
I  've  pitied  those  more  timorous  who  kneeled 

Imploringly,  their  sorrows  to  express, 
To  pacify  that  peevish  pedagogue  ; 
Reader  excuse,  (scarce  fit  to  teach  a  h — .) 

XI. 

Well,  as  I  said,  young  Albert  had  at  school 

Learned   many  things,  which  to  this  pass  had 
brought  him. 

That  he  was  deemed  deserving  of  a  stool, 

And  all  the  pretty  maids  around  besought  him 

To  share  their  nuptial  feasts,  't  was  quite  a  rule  ; 
But  something  which  his  pious  mother  taught  him 

Deserves  a  word  by  way  of  explanation  ; 

'T  was  quite  too  monstrous  for  this  generation. 


XII. 
Yes,  monstrous,  to  suppress  the  fairest  feeling, 

(Perhaps  the  only  one  which  came  off  clear 
When  mortal  sweets  were  shipwreck'd)firm!y  steeling 

His  heart  to  love,  she  taught  him  to  revere 


118 


ANGELA. 


Here  Y  alone,  nor  ever  dream  of  kneeling 

At  beauty's  shrine ;  't  was  really  too  severe. 
You  'U  wonder  what  she  meant,  and  what  did  she, 
Unless  to  make  her  son  a  prodigy  ! 


XIII. 
She  taught  him  lo  believe,  and  he  believed  it. 

That  naught  was  so  deceptive  as  a  woman's 
Smile,  strange  though  it  be,  as  gospel  he  received  it ; 

She  quoted  Paul's  Epistle  to  the  Romans, 
(But  she  was  wrong,  and  afterwards  retrieved  it,) 

Said   she,  the   apostle    proves    that    'tis   to   no 
man's 
Weal,  credit,  or  advantage  e'er  to  marry  ; 
Advising  all,  who  would  do  well,  to  tarry. 

XIV. 

I  've  often  wondered  what  the  apostle  meant 
By  such  advice,  unless  he  wanted  matter ; 

And  though  his  fund  of  argument  were  spent, 
'T  is  strange  to  me  how  he  thus  dared  to  scatter 

Doctrines  so  novel,  so  inconsistent ; 

Such  precepts  now-a-days  would  raise  a  clatter. 

To  Paul  we  yield  of  course  profound  respect ; 

Yet  precepts  such  as  this  we  will  reject. 


ANGELA. 


119 


XVI. 
And  up  to  where  we  now  have  brought  his  story, 

She  had  been  most  successful,  though  no  doubt. 
At  times,  from  Nature's  vast  repositoiy. 

Flashes  of  light  had  almost  put  to  rout 
Her  sagest  admonitions  ;  yet  the  more  he 

Braced  every  nerve,  determined  like  a  stout 
Unyielding  veteran,  when  he  bends  his  bow, 
To  lay  some  treacherous  adversary  low. 


XV. 

But  I  'm  inclined  to  think,  that  Paul  was  more 
Abstemious  than  folk  of  his  profession 

In  these  degenerr.te  times  ;  for  at  three-score 

They  marry  maids,  nor  make  the  least  concession. 

Perhaps  they  think  that  precept  was  a  bore. 
But  reader,  do  excuse  this  long  digression  ; 

So,  as  I  said,  Albert  was  taught  to  smother 

Love,  e'en  in  embryo,  by  his  zealous  mother. 


'  I 


XVII. 

No  doubt  the  matron  aimed  at  noble  ends, 
For  she  had  witnessed,  with  extreme  disgust. 

To  what  dire  lengths  passion  uncurbed  extends  : 
We  think,  however,  she  overreached  her  trust ; 


120 


ANGELA. 


But  we  do  not  intend  to  tire  our  friends 

With  tedious  declamations,  so  we  must 
Proceed  with  Albert  to  the  aforesaid  wedding, 
Where  all  its  charms  a  nuptial  day  was  spreading. 

XVIII. 
The   hour  approached ;    the    bridegroom   and  his 
train 

Had  been  announced,  as  heaving  into  view  ; 
The  clean-clad  urchins  scale  the  wall  to  strain 

Their  latest  vision,  for  the  scene  was  new ; 
**  Huzza !  how  fast  they  scud  along  the  plain," 

And  Ranger^s  big  bow-wow  said  welcome  too ; 
While  from  her  window,  like  a  hiding  rose. 
The  bride  too  stole  a  glimpse,  we  may  suppose. 


XIX. 

But  Albert  in  a  back  apartment  sat. 
Careless,  and  with  a  neighboring  lass  or  two 

Beguiled  the  waiting  hour  with  various  chat. 
And  when  at  length  the  welcome  travellers  drew 

Up  to  the  door,  of  course  he  seized  his  hat 
And  hurried  out ;  (we  do  not  say  ho  flew, 

That  would  be  rude.)    He  briskly  stepped  around 

To  hand  the  ladies  softly  to  the  ground. 


ANGELA. 


121 


XX. 

As  looks  the  home-bound  school-boy  at  a  pear, 
Ripe  ready,  though  forbade  by  high  command, 

So  looked  young  Albert  when  Angela  fair 

Threw  back  her  veil  and  tendered  him  her  hand. 

Bless  me,  her  step  was  like  a  thing  of  air, 
All  elasticity ;  or  did  the  wand 

Of  some  unseen  confusion-loving  witch 

Touch  Albert's  eyes  to  that  wild  dazzling  pitch  ? 


XXI. 

Perhaps  't  was  so,  we  do  n't  pretend  to  say 

What  charms  they  weave,  but  think  there  was 
another 

Reason  why  Albert's  vision  went  astray  ; 
There  is  a  charm  which  reason  cannot  smother, 

Nor  all  its  powers  of  Logic  chase  away. 

No  doubt  poor  Albert  thought  upon  his  mother. 

And  wished  he  had  not  heard  her  sage  advices. 

Since  to  obey  must  cost  such  hideous  prices. 

XXII. 

There  is  a  custom,  (if  of  recent  date, 

Or  standing  long,  we  shall  not  wait  to  say,) 

Wherein  the  parties  each  select  a  mate. 
Or  kind  of  close  companion  for  the  day ; 
9 


'I 
if 


,  iife 


132 


ANGELA. 


And  those  thus  chosen  take  it  as  a  great 

Affair,  to  be  selected  to  the  play. 
Were  the  case  ours,  we  two  should  hold  the  gloves ; 
'T  were  surely  not  offensive  to  the  loves. 

XXIII. 

But  custom  's  every  thing  ;  likewise  we  see 

The  clerical  community  approves, 
Nor  be  surprised,  it  looks  like  unity, 

Such  readiness  to  pull  and  hold  the  gloves ; 
Besides  it  savors  of  another  fee, 

And  clergymen  are  but  a  few  removes 
From  other  men  respecting  love  of  cash. 
Although  at  times  they  must  pronounce  it  Irash, 


XXIV. 

Well,  to  this  honorary  office.  Miss, 
Or  rather  our  fair  heroine  was  chosen, 

And  Albert,  too ;  "  O !  has  it  come  to  this  ? 

And  yet  my  mother  dreams  my  heart  is  frozen." 

Then  did  he  ponder  o'er  the  pending  kiss  ; 
Contracted  custom,  why  not  half  a  dozen  ? 

No,  fate  decreed  but  one,  't  was  due,  he  took  it. 

His  heart  beat  high,  H  was  bliss,  we  may  not  hook  i  , 


ANGELA. 


123 


XXV. 

Albert's  resolves  now  took  a  fearful  slip, 

Nor  be  surprised  ;    't  is  oft  the  case  with  such 

Resolves  ;  though  time  and  place  forbade  to  sip 
The  nectar  then,  yet  even  that  passing  touch, 

The  inebriating  fragrance  on  that  lip. 

Thrilled  to  his  inniost  soul ;  O,  H  was  too  much  ; 

'T  was  sensibility's  first  gush  of  feeling  ; 

No  wonder  then  his  senses  went  a  reeling. 

XXVI. 

We  are  aware  there  is  a  worthy  class. 
Upright  and  numerous  as  the  forest  trees. 

Who  think  that  love  must  grow  up  like  the  grass, 
By  slow  and  imperceptible  degrees. 

And  if  a  youth  but  come  to  Albert's  pass. 
They  call  him  lunatic,  or  what  you  please. 

Such  folks  must  pardon  us,  for  we  will  tell  them, 

That  many  things  are  true  which  ne'er  befel  them. 


XXVII. 

Instance,  we  believe  there  oft  has  been  a  battle. 
Although  we  never  saw  or  wished  to  see  one  ; 

We  believe  in  bears,  and  all  such  climbing  cattle. 
What  boots  it  though  we  never  helped  to  tree  one ; 


124 


ANGELA. 


Even  little  children,  at  the  name  of  rattle, 

Believe,  and  cry,  "  Papa,  O  do  buy  me  one." 
Well,  just  as  sure  as  rattles,  bears  and  cannon. 
Love  has  one  dizzying  height  to  set  a  man  on. 

XXVIII. 
Another  class,  far  more  than  these  astray. 

Deny  that  there  exists  one  soft  emotion  ; 
Such  folks  are  like,  (I  scarce  know  what  to  say,) 

Like  drift-wood  wandering  o'er  the  face  of  ocean 
Unclaimed,  unvalued,  ever  in  the  way  ; 

Of  such  depravity  a  perfect  notion 
We  cannot  give,  so  let  them  keep  their  station  ; 
Annoyances  siill  mar  this  fair  creation. 


XXIX. 

The  noose  well  tied,  passed  round  the  cake  and 
cheese. 

And  such  etceteras,  which  we  scarce  need  men- 
tion ; 
We  Ml  say  a  word,  however,  if  you  please, 

For  really  they  do  merit  some  attention  ; 
The  wine  is  now  discharged,  is  gone,  yet  these 

As  yet,  thank  heaven,  have  suffered  no  declension. 
No,  there  they  stand,  the  basis  of  reaction, 
And  form  at  least  nine-tenths  of  the  attraction. 


ANGELA. 


125 


n 


,nd 


gn- 


XXX. 

Perhaps  some  intellectual  folks  may  say, 
"  That  really  is  a  swinish  calculation ; " 

But  let  some  pair  appoint  the  wedding-day, 
Inserting  on  each  card  of  invitation, 

Refreshments  none^  but  mirth  and  song  and  play  ; 
'T  is  more  genteel,  and  ma's  determination ; 

The  hour  arrived,  just  let  them  call  the  roll, 

And  I  'm  mistaken  if  they  find  one  soul, 

XXXI. 

Except  the  priest ;  in  pity  to  the  pair, 

And  guarding  hymen's  altar  as  he  ought, 
It  is  quite  possible  he  might  be  there. 

But  must  regard  the  whole  affair  as  naught ; 
Or  as  a  cloud  that  mocks  the  sultry  air, 

And  passes,  leaving  earth  all  parched  with  draught  ;> 
Like  gold-tinged  apples,  on  the  Dead- Sea  shore. 

Containing  ashes,  dust,  and — nothing  more. 


on. 


XXXII. 

But  to  return,  we  say  the  knot  well  tied. 
And  every  comfort  flowing  with  the  wine ; 

Annoyance  none,  excepting  that  the  bride 
Was  second  to  our  lovely  heroine  ; 


Vie 


JkNGELA. 


The  phrase  is  not  exactly  well  applied, 

But  let  it  go,  ^t  will  finish  out  the  line. 
Lord  Byron  says,  kings  are  not  more  imperious 
Than  rhymes  ;  and  I  believe  his  lordship  serious. 


XXXIII. 
On  went  the  dance,  and  Albert's  bosom  fluttered 

With  feelings  it  had  never  known  before  ; 
E^en  envy  stood  aghast,  and  almost  uttered 

Angela  moves  with  grace  upon  the  floor. 
Well  done  the  crooked  foot,  was  barely  muttered. 

And  even  that  just  whispered  at  the  door ; 
And  all  went  sweetly  as  a  "  marriage  bell," 
Save  Albert's  inward  man,  bound  by  a  spell. 


XXXIV. 

I  can't  believe  that  dancing  is  a  crime. 
Unless  it  be  outrageously  ill-done. 

Or  carried  to  excess ;  there  is  a  time 
For  every  purpose  underneath  the  sun, 

Saith  Solomon  ;  and  his  remarks  are  prime. 
And  shall  be,  when  the  puny  race  is  run. 

Of  those  who  would  new  theories  advance. 

And  latest  generations  learn  to  dance. 


T 


ANGELA. 


127 


XXXV. 

Yes,  when  our  mighty  race  has  dwindled  down 

To  little  more  that  Lilliputian  size  ; 
When  black,  through  dint  of  age,  has  turned  to  brown, 

And  suns  retire  to  rest  in  eastern  skies ; 
When  superstition,  with  his  iron  frown. 

Is  banished  earth  ; — e^en  then  our  sons  shall  rise. 
And  shake  their  little  feet,  and  thank  the  fates 
For  every  blessing  showered  upon  their  pates. 


XXXVI. 

But  should  they  then,  with  retrospective  eyes. 
Review  what  now  obtains  upon  this  ball, 

Would  stand  disgusted  at  our  giant  size, 
And  at  our  lack  of  intellect,  withal ! 

Nor  wonder  that  the  sun  in  eastern  skies 
Arose,  but  wonder  much  it  rose  at  all. 

To  light  the  scene  for  such  a  horde  of  asses — 

I  '11  stop  ;  the  subject  all  my  skill  surpasses. 

XXXVII. 

But  to  return — for  I  must  in  this  place 
Relate  an  incident,  which,  if  I  could, 

I  gladly  would  evade  :  to  say  the  grace, 
A  deacon,  venerable,  wise  and  good, 


128 


ANGELA. 


Was  chosen  ;   so  he  lengthened  down  his  face, 

And  closed  his  eyes, — ^just  as  a  deacon  should- 
And  leaning  forward  with  a  holy  air, 
A  luckless  candle  seized  upon  his  hair. 


(( 


XXXVIII. 

Phiz !  phiz  !  "  it  went — none  daring  to  oppose 

At  such  a  time,  th'  outrageous  element ; 
Until,  at  length,  Angela  softly  rose. 

And  as  a  messenger  whom  fate  had  sent 
To  save  his  head,  her  handkerchief  she  throws 

Around  the  flame,  and  smothered,  out  it  went 
And  though  the  fact  has  stoutly  been  opposed, 
His  head  remained  uncovered  ^till  he  closed. 


XXXIX. 

Because  he  made  despatch  ;  for  from  the  first 
He  believed  that  from  the  chamber  came  the  roar 

Of  fire  ;  and  what  annoyed  him  most,  and  worst. 
His  seat  was  not  contiguous  to  the  door ; 

And  then,  again,  he  wondered  much  what  cursed. 
Half-witted  maid — when  crash,  came  down  the 
floor. 

As  he  supposed  ;  but 't  was  the  silken  sheet ; 

And  with  a  bound  he  sprang  upon  his  feet. 


ANGELA. 


129 


XL. 

Two  ladies  fainted,  but  three  laughed  outright — 

Such  the  variety  of  female  mind  : 
One  fires  a  Persian  Palace,  in  the  night, 

Another  trembles  at  the  passing  wind  ; 
One  prowls  the  battle-field,  in  murderous  plight, 

Another  loves,  and  feels  for  all  her  kind  ; 
Ai»!  fii'ed  is  every  intermediate  space, 
With  ladies,  rank  o'er  rank,  and  face  o'er  face. 


XLI. 

I  'm  growing  sentimental,  as  you  see, 

And  therefore  bring  this  canto  to  a  close  : 

The  evening  passed  in  undissembled  glee, 

'Till  mirth  itself  grew  tired,  and  sought  repose, 

Like  some  wild  zephyr  on  an  Indian  sea  ; 
But  long  before  that  happy  party  rose, 

Angela's  loving,  lingering  glances  told 

What  female  tongues  but  rarely  do  unfold* 


CANTO   III. 


L 


Reader,  there  is  a  spot — a  lonely  spot, 
Where  all  our  sympathies  must  ever  tend  ; 

So  holy,  too,  that 't  is  not  quite  forgot. 

E'en  by  the  worldling — who  would  not  befriend 

The  widow,  who  to  soothe  her  hapless  lot, 
Would  not  at  once  the  helping  hand  extend. 

Ripe  for  the  realm  where  conscience  ever  gnaws, 

Is  he  who  spurns  the  widow  and  her  cause. 


II. 

But  Time,  who  heals  the  wounds  himself  has  made, 
Mysteriously  can  soothe  the  widow's  heart ; 

And  oft  before  its  anguish  is  allayed. 
Some  deeply  latent  energy  will  start. 


—1.- 


ANGELA. 


131 


Quick  as  a  leveret  from  its  sylvan  shade, 

And  almost  magic  influence  impart : 
Giving  the  mind  an  unforseen  direction, 
And  fixing  some  new  object  of  affection. 

ITI. 
And  precious  hours  are  oftentimes  misspent, 

To  train  a  lap-dog,  or  a  favorite  bird. 
Forgetting  that  great  solace  Heaven  has  sent. 

That  gem  of  gems,  the  everlasting  Word  ; 
At  times,  to  raise  some  novel  sentiment. 

Which  ever-varying  uature  never  stirred — 
At  times,  some  glow^ing  sentiment  to  smother, 
Which  was  the  dire  resort  of  Albert's  mother. 


IV. 

'T  is  not  surprising  that  the  widowed  heart 

Should  cling  with  fondness  to  a  friend  or  brother  ; 

Even  inert  matter,  if  one  prop  depart. 
Invariably  reposes  on  another  ; 

But  this  attempt  to  wrench  off  Cupid's  dart. 
And  love,  our  only  solace  left,  to  smother ; 

Was  an  attempted  outrage  upon  nature, 

Which  she  will  not  allow  from  living  creature. 


132 


ANGELA. 


V. 

Now  pass  we  over  several  conversations 
Which  might  disgust  the  ladies  if  recorded ; 

Who  might  not  brook  her  loud  expostulations, 
And  would  denounce  the  matron  as  a  sordid 

Unfeeling  wretch,  a  shame  to  heathen  nations  ; 
But  Albert  manfully  opposed  her,  nor  did 

He  yield  the  hope  of  gaining  yet  the  prize ; 

We  give  a  spice  or  two  of  his  replies. 

VI. 
"  But,  mother,  certainly  you  were  in  jest. 

When  you  exacted  from  your  only  son 
A  promise  so  severe  ;  in  your  own  breast 

There  lives  a  fond  remembrance  now  of  one. 
Who  loved  you  once,  long  since  gone  to  his  rest ; 

You  've  told  me  he  was  fairer  than  the  sun  ; — 
I  Ve  heard  you  name  my  father,  while  the  tears 
Gushed  from  their  hidden  source  of  many  years. 


VIT. 
**  And     ds  that  father  guilty  of  a  crime 

In  loving  such  an  object  as  thou  wast. 
Ere  yet  the  all-defacing  hand  of  time. 

Thy  sunny  ringlets  and  thy  roses  tossed 


ANGELA. 


133 


To  other  hands,  when  in  his  manly  prime 

He  loved  thee,  wooed  thee,  chose  thee  from  an 
host  ? 
And  is  it  strange  this  heart,  most  honored  mother, 
Should  glow  with  kindred  feelings  for  another  ?  " 

VIII. 
Thus  Albert  reasoned,  but  alas  in  vain  ; 

The  matron's  pride  was  roused,  and  this  the  cause : 
She  had  been  rallied  once,  and  once  again. 

At  her  attempts  to  frustrate  nature's  laws  ; 
And  she  contended  still  with  might  and  main, 

(For  woman's  pride  is  of  that  kind  which  gnaws 
The  very  heart-strings  if  it  be  opposed. 
And  lives,  forsooth,  'till  life  itself  has  closed.) 


IX. 

Wer 'f<  volled  on  week,  as  they  have  ever  done 
??■  "si:  i'lden  saw  the  first  true-loving  pair, 

And  slrii'  forever  while  the  circling  sun 

Shines  on  our  little  globe ;  no  matter  where, 

Or  how,  the  impetuous  tides  of  love  may  run, 
Time  still  moves  on  majestically  there. 

Time  and  our  globe  are  twins,  were  born  together, 

^jA'pg  along  despising  wind  and  weather. 


134 


ANGELA. 


X. 

Each,  rather  paler  than  its  predecessor, 
Saw  Albert  grow  ;  his  mother  saw  it  too, 

And  much  it  grieved  and  really  did  oppress  her, 
She  knew  not  what  to  think,  or  what  to  do ; 

Her  conscience  checked  her  as  a  rank  aggressor, 
Pride  whispering  still  oNodience  is  your  due  ; 

Her  admonitions  then  she  ',        '  rehearse  ; 

But  we  pass  on  in  haste  to  the  next  verse. 

XI. 

I  really  believe  post-offices  and  letters 
Have  more  achieved  to  socialize  our  race. 

Than  ought  since  civilization  broke  the  fetters 
And  hoisted  man  into  his  proper  place. 

We  must  at  once  confess  ourselves  their  debtors, 
When  we  with  friends  hold  converse,  face  to  face 

As  't  were,  though  heaving  oceans  intervene, 

And  rocks  and  misty  mountains  rise  between. 


XII. 

I  mean  to  say  that  Albert  had  received 
A  letter ;  though  I  really  must  confess 

'T  was  from  a  source  (I  think  I  shall  be  believed) 
Whence  letters  often  cause  uneasiness ; — 


ANGELA. 


185 


A  lawyer's  letter.     Many  a  soul  has  grieved, 

In  short,  they  seldom  have  the  power  to  bless  ;— 
(Some  learn  this  lespon  after  leaving  school,) 
But  his  was  an  exception  to  the  rule. 

XIII. 
We  say  then,  pointedly,  he  had  received 

Intelligence  by  letter  of  a  kind 
Which  wounds  to  heal ;  he  laughed  and  then  seemed 
grieved ; 

By  turns  half  wild,  then  in  his  perfect  mind  ; 
'T  was  bad  and  good,  yet  both  might  be  believed  j 

One  part,  like  summer  breeze  to  weary  hind ; 
And  one,  a  rueful  aspect  taught  to  wear ; 
But  how  or  why  could  sorrow  harbor  there  ? 


XIV. 
A  gentleman,  a  lawyer  too  of  high 

Repute,  informed  the  youth  of  the  demise 
Of  an  unknown  old  uncle  ;  and  thereby 

Six  thousand  dollars,  (quite  a  pretty  prize,) 
Awaited  him.     As  from  a  squally  sky. 

The  sun  at  times  peers  forth  to  greet  our  eyes, 
And  chase  the  shadowy  mists,  so  Albert's  smiles, 
His  sighs,  his  t^^ars  and  sorrows  all  beguiles. 


136 


ANGELA. 


XV. 

That  night  young  Albert  slept  not,  but  he  dreamed, 
And  from  his  pillow  various  were  the  views, 

Strange,  fairy-like  and  magical  they  seemed  ; 
When  o'er  the  sullen  brain  of  the  recluse 

A  retrospect  of  men  and  things  has  gleamed ; 
Around  his  exiled  heart  no  joy  it  strews  ; 

A  draught  of  gall  't  is  to  his  loi^ely  soul, 

Each  social  feeling  gone  beyond  control. 

XVI. 

Not  so  young  Albert,  for  his  manly  breast, 
Generous  and  social  almost  to  a  crime, 

Enjoyed  the  vision,  though  it  broke  his  rest ; 
*T  was  like  the  summer  to  Siberian  clime  ; 

And  though  his  mother  did  appear  depressed. 
As  dimly  shadowed  forth  from  time  to  time. 

Yet  over  all  Angela  held  the  sway. 

Bright,  beautiful  and  blushing  as  the  day. 


XVII. 
Proceed  we  onward  to  a  serious  hour — 

*T  was  that  of  parting — though,  upon  the  whole 
The  matron's  grief  far  over  his  did  tower  ; 

Her  partner,  when  he  hft^  (poor  simple  soul,) 


ANGELA. 


137 


Had  placed  his  little  all  within  her  power ; 

But  here  was  something  she  could  not  control ; 
And  much  she  feared  that  Albert  might  forget 
Her  sweet  advices  in  his  path  to  set. 

•        XVIII. 
Yet  part  they  must ;  to  be  identified, 

And  seize  the  cash,  was  all  he  had  to  do — 
"  Biu  O  !  that  frightful  sea,"  she  often  cried, 

"  Shall  never  toss  and  roll  to  sicken  you." 
To  soothe  her  fears  of  course  young  Albert  tried  ;- 

A  brighter  prospect  gleamed  upon  his  view. 
And  part  they  must ;  the  day  arrived — he  sailed 
For  Boston,  though  his  spirits  nearly  failed. 


XIX. 

'T  was  midnight,  as  they  say,  upon  the  sea, 
Yet  all  was  calm  and  lonely ;  not  a  wave 

Above  the  surface  rose  in  sportive  glee ; 
The  Ocean  Spirit  in  his  coral  cave 

Slept,  to  restore  his  wonted  energy. 
And  all  was  still,  and  breathless  as  the  grave  '^ 

Save  that  at  times  the  breast  of  ocean  rose, 

As  though  a  deep>drawa  sigh  broke  its  repose. 
10 


m 


A'Md£tA« 


XX. 

Wrapped  in  the  dreams  which  only  sea-birds  knoWf 
The  bird  of  ocean  lulled  itself  to  rest ; 

And  as  each  undulation  passed  below, 

Rose  like  a  gem  on  breathing  beauty^s  breast ; 

Beneath  the  surface,  sporting  to  and  fro. 

The  sparkling  shoals  their  happiness  confessed^ 

Glistening  like  gems  that  beam  from  ladies*  broaches, 

Or  lamps  that  guide  our  justly  famed  stage-coaches< 


XXI. 

On  board  that  little  bark,  no  voice  except 
The  clicking  of  a  time-piece,  or  the  sound 

Of  rolling  air,  employed  by  those  that  slept. 

Half  smothered  lamp-light  spread  the  berths  around 

And  o^er  the  cabin  floor  in  silence  crept ; 
While  o^er  the  crew  a  stillness  as  profound 

Almost  as  chaos,  ere  old  Time  b^gan. 

And  roused  the  thunder  a  of  the  lordling  man. 


XXII. 
And  worse  than  all,  the  faithless  watchman  slam- 
bered— 
Nay,  slept,  and  o'er  the  fettered  wheel  reclined ; 
Upon  his  brain,  visions  of  home  were  lumbered, 
Confusedly  heaped,  and  dim  and  undefined  ; 


ANGELA. 


]3i^ 


Yet  dreamed  he  not  his  days  e'en  then  were  num- 
bered, 
And  home's  last  soothing  dream  his  heart  entwined. 
Kind  Heaven,  in  wisdom,  and  in  mercy,  too, 
Veils  the  dark  shafts  of  fate  from  mortal  view. 

XXIII. 
Thus  passed  the  hour ; — when  lo !  a  sudden  stroke, 

A  deaf 'ning  crash,  (awakening  all  the  crew,) 
Loud  as  the  thunder-bolt  that  smites  the  oak. 

And  spreads  its  withered  branches  where  it  grew ; 
Confused,  and  frightened,  all  on  board  awoke — 

Bewildered,  quite,  nor  knew  they  what  to  do. 
Not  forests,  tempest-torn,  could  more  affright 
The  lone  lost  traveller  on  the  darkest  night. 


XXIV. 
Loud  rolled  the  screams  from  every  waking  dreamer. 

Thrown  on  tie  cabin  floor  in  dire  dismay ; 
We  deal  not  in  suspense— a  home-bound  steamer 

Had  crossed  the  little  barque  upon  her  way ; 
Yet  blame  her  not,  nor  for  one  moment  deem  her 

A  reckless  demon  hiding  from  the  day ; 
Her  crew  were  noble,  generous, — undismayed, 
E'en  at  the  direful  havoc  they  had  made. 


140 


ANGELA. 


XXV. 

**  Man,  man  the  boats !  '^  the  gallant  captain  cried, 
And  promptly  sprung  they  to  the  bending  oar ; 

For  now  the  wreck  heeled  to  its  larboard  side, 
And  nine  were  hurried  off  to  rise  no  more, 

While  others  clung  to  ropes,  and  nobly  tried 
To  save  the  sinking  ; — waves  began  to  pour 

Through  the  cleft  side  of  that  ill-fated  barque ; 

'T  was  wild  confusion  doubled,  for  't  was  dark. 

XXVT. 

But  soon  the  heaving  boat  the  deck  had  won. 
And  these  were  rescued  from  a  yawning  grave  ; 

The  steamci  rounded  to,  and  cheered  them  on, 
And  female  hands  were  stretched  as  if  to  save. 

Nor  paused  those  seamen  'till  their  work  was  done  ; 
Rugged  they  were,  and  generous,  and  brave  ; 

Nine  rescued  were,  and  Albert,  scarcely  so. 

Borne  to  the  deck,  and  safely  lodged  below. 


XXVII. 
For  he  was  stunned — you  would  have  thought  he  slept. 

Languid  and  pale,  his  pulse  frightfully  slow — 
For  safety,  to  the  rigging  he  had  crept, 

And  when  he  saw,  or  rather  heard  below, 


ANGELA. 


141 


The  heaving  oars,  into  the  boat  he  leaped  ; 

But  as  he  sprung,  a  something  caught  his  toe- 
Forward  he  plunged,  and  lighting  on  his  head. 
Though  breathing,  lay  unconscious  as  the  dead. 

XXVIII. 
Hail  Sympathy  !  spirit  of  Heavenly  birth, 

Our  solace  here  ; — again  I  bid  thee  hail ! 
Not  ocean's  rubies,  nor  the  gems  of  earth, 

Nor  Indian  odors  on  the  evening  gale — 
Almost  I  said,  nor  the  domestic  hearth. 

Most  flowery  spot  found  in  this  winding  vale, 
With  thy  delicious  fragrance  may  compare  ; 
It  smells  to  Heaven  its  source,  and  centres  there. 


XXIX. 

And  yet,  there  fell  a  tear  on  Albert's  brow. 
Richer  by  far  than  sympathy  bestows — 

T  was  from  that  deep  recess  where  love's  first  vow 
Comes  trembling,  hoping,  blushing  as  a  rose. 

If  words  can  blush.     (You  must  excuse  it  now  ; 
Sing,  we  could  not,  as  every  poet  knows, 

If  once  compelled  our  privilege  to  strike 

O'er  lilies,  roses,  beauty  and  the  like.) 


142 


INOELA. 


XXX. 

But  whence  those  tears  ?  and  who  around  him  flung 
Those  sighs,  that  soothed  his  brain,  and  calnned 
the  strife  ? 

(For  love  in  all  its  loveliness  overhung 

His  sinking  soul,  and  charmed  it  back  to  life.) 

Reader,  it  was  Angela  who  had  clung 
With  all  the  fondness  of  a  wedded  wife  ; 

Had  hoped,  had  feared,  and  when  with  open  eyes 

He  looked  around,  imagine  his  surprise. 

XXXI. 

At  first  he  thought  he  slept,  and  only  dreamed 
As  heretofore ;  but  why  so  sad  her  mien  ? 

Again  relapsing,  all  around  him  seemed 
To  swim,  and  was  but  indistinctly  seen ; 

And  then,  when  nature  rallied,  something  gleamed 
Around  his  brain,  with  shadows  thick  between. 

Listening  he  lay ;  at  length  those  gentle  sighs 

The  tumult  stilled  ;  he  opened  both  his  eyes. 


XXXII. 

And  steadily  he  gazed  on  that  fair  face. 

Where  love,  hope,  fear,  blushes  and  beauty  met 

In  combination  ;  neither  time,  nor  place. 
Nor  medicine,  nor  music^s  self,  nor  yet 


ANGELA. 


14» 


The  wiliest  wizzard^s  charm  so  soon  could  chase 
The  gloom  that  hovered  o^er  his  mind,  and  set 
Aright  his  wandering  thoughts ; — \  was  like  the  ray 
That  points  to  midnight  mariners  the  way  ; — 

XXXIII. 

Or  like  the  rain  that  bids  the  grass  to  grow  ; 

Or  like  the  sunbeam,  waking  flowers  to  deck 
A  pathway  in  the  wild  wood,  and  bestow 

A  wreath  of  flowers,  each  from  a  tiny  speck. 
No  matter  what  ^t  was  like,  this  much  I  know. 

Next  evening,  Albert  walked  upon  the  deck, 
(Not  quite  alone,)  far  happier  than  before, 
And  sung,  "  Again  I  view  the  sounding  shore/* 


XXXIV. 

Now  pass  we  on ;  I  know  you  will  agree ; 

Ere  now  the  sequel  you  anticipate. 
Three  passing  weeks  had  brought  the  legacy  ;  { 

But  Albert  and  his  fair  one  lingered  yet. 
Pleased  with  the  land  of  loaves  and  liberty. 

Two  early  friends  by  accident  he  met. 
And  formed  some  new  ones,  aye,  the  cash  can  do  it, 
But,  strange  to  say,  he  ne^er  had  cause  to  rue  it 


144 


ANGELA. 


XXXV. 

Our  heroine  since  her  landing  had  enjoyed 
A  kinsman^s  hpme,  in  a  suburban  vale 

Some  miles  from  Boston ;  nor  had  aught  annoyed 
Her  peace  of  mind  ;  't  was  genuine,  't  was  real. 

Assiduously  her  time  had  been  employed  ; 
For  preparation  on  a  lofty  scale 

Moved  onward,  and  again  a  nuptial  day 

Came  blooming,  blushing  as  the  queen  of  May. 

XXXVI. 

A  buzz  of  preparation,  and  the  voice 
Of  friendly  females,  aided  to  prepare 

A  sumptuous  feast ;  for  really  to  rejoice 

That  valley  seemed,  sinco  age  and  youth  did  share 

Alike  promiscuously  the  varied  joys  ; 

Nor  was  aught  wanting  that  was  rich  or  rare  ; 

Melodious  music  murmured  o'er  the  green, 

And  Cupid,  passing,  smiled  upon  the  scene. 


XXXVII. 

Fond  were  the  maiden's  friends  ;  and  at  her  side 
Untiring  friendship  her  s^veet  halo  shed. 

In  all  the  trappings  of  a  v/estern  bride, 

They  decked  the  fair  Angela.    She,  when  led 


BMir 


ANGELA. 


145 


I 


To  Hymen's  holy  altar,  vas  their  pride  ; 

Their  sparkling  glances  nerving  influence  spread 
Upon  the  blushing  stranger ;  all  was  joy 
Unconnpromising  and  without  alloy. 

XXXVIII. 

The  honey-moon,  (if  such  a  moon  is  found,) 
We  leave  alone,  and  haste  to  Albert's  mother ; 

Report  had  reached— one,  hastening  with  the  sound. 
Apprised  the  dame  ;  then  presently  another, 

O'ercharged  with  news  and  hoping  to  astound. 
By  dozens  came  they,  ('t  was  enough  to  smother,) 

She,  like  the  eastern  sage,  refrained  from  words, 

(The  sage  who  lost  his  children  and  his  herds.) 


XXXIX. 

Those  sad  bereavements  burst  upon  his  view 
Singly  ;  each  servant  tarrying  a  little  ; 

While  he  astonished  wist  not  what  to  do ; 

(Nay,  could  not  even  swallow  down  his  spittle.) 

The  matron  would  have  been  astounded  too, 
But  that  she  disbelieved  it  jot  and  tittle. 

When  lo  !  a  letter  glided  o'er  the  water. 

Which   said,    "  prepare    to    meet    your    son    and 
daughter ! " 


146 


ANGELA. 


XL. 

The  dame  was  cured  ;  nor  once  thereafter  sought 
To  turn  the  currents  of  the  world  aside ; 

(Dearly  H  is  true  the  lesson  had  been  bought.) 
Two  chubby  nurslings  now  are  all  her  pride 

And  joy  ;  to  her  the  pomp  of  wealth  were  naught 
Without  those  pretty  prattlers  by  her  side  ; 

And  what  she  strove  against  with  all  her  powers, 

Proves  the  rich  solace  of  her  evening  hours. 


a\ 


LEGEND. 


The  maid  of  the  forest,  the  warrior's  daughter, 
Sat  silent  and  sad  on  the  bank|fof  a  stream. 

To  that  iciielj  retreat  a  fond  father  had  brought  her 
To  rest  'till  her  tribe  their  lost  rights  should  re- 
deem. 

The   war-whoop   had    sounded,  the    arr     s   were 

flying* 
(How  wild  is  the  conflict  when  savages  meet,) 
And  the  eagle-eyed  sire  of  the  maiden  lay  dying. 
His  weapons  and  feathers  all  strewed  at  his  feet. 


n 


But  the  maiden  wept  not,  for  she  never  had  dreamed 
That  her  father  could  fall  by  the  hand  of  a  foe  ; 

She   had   seen   him  stand  firm  when   the  winged 
arrows  gleamed. 
She  had  seen  his  strong  arm  lay  his  opponent  low. 


)  .1.^ 


h-^r-'vjfif 


r   i  ■  ' 


U 


148 


LEGEND. 


And  she  deemed  him  a  rock,  where  the  torrent  of 
war 

Might  dash  for  a  while  and  beat  bac  :  to  the  main  ; 
And  that  he  should  return  without  ever  a  scar, 

And  conduct  her  in  peace  to  her  kindred  again. 

'T  was  that  sweetest  of  times,  when  the  summer  sky- 
launches 

Profusion  of  foliage  to  deck  every  bough. 
And  she  sat  in  the  shade  of  the  wild  waving  branches, 

Where  lone  Musquodoboit  meandered  below. 

How  changed  is  that  spot ;  not  a  vestige  remains 
Of  those  moss-covered  branches  that  screened  the 
brown  maid  ; 
Now  the  voice  of  blithe  hay-makers  gladden  those 
plains. 
And  echo  responds  from  a  far  distant  shade. 


Of  the  green  native  vines,  as  they  ran  in  the  wild- 
wood, 
She  wove  a  rude  garland  to  deck  the  dark  brow 
Of  her  sire,  when  he  came  ; — while  a  song  of  her 
childhood. 
So  warbling  and  wild,  chased  the  bird  from  its 
bough. 


"?1 


LEGEND. 


149 


And  evening  came  down  in  her  shadowy  form, 
And  the  river  went  murmuring  on  to  the  main  ; 

Then  first  the  lone  maideu  was  filled  with  alarm, 
For  reason  had  whispered,  thy  father  is  slain. 


But  the  darkness  of  midnight  which  shrouded  her 
form 

Was  lij^ht,  when  compared  to  her  darkness  of  soul. 
Her  untu'.ored  spirit  was  wild  as  the  storm 

That  rages  in  autumn,  despising  control. 

The  morning  had  seen  her  a  fond  forest  child. 
The  evening,  a  fearful,  a  heart-stricken  maid  ; 

At  midnight,  a  maniac,  raging  and  wild  ; — 

Musquodohoit^s  dark  waters  closed  over  her  head. 


Tradition  still  points  to  the  spot  where  they  foundf 
her, 

Beneath  the  blue  wave  rolling  slowly  along. 
The  rush  and  the  river-grass  folded  around  her  ; — 

Her  fate  is  still  chaunted  in  rude  Indian  song, 


SONG, 


I. 


WtiEN  the  rude,  briny  wave  lifts  its  head  to  the  skies, 

And  the  mariner  trembles,  appalled,  at  the  storm, 
And  the  poor  sleeping  sea-boy  awakes  in  surprise, 

"With  a  visage  betokening  the  wildest  alarm — 
Then  the  husbandman  safely  reposes  in  peace  ; 

O'er  his  cottage,  se-ure,  the  winds  heedlessly 
roam  ;— 
H4  enjoys  from  his  labor  a  pleasing  release. 

Encircled,  the  while,  by  t!ie  halo  of  home. 


( 

1 


II. 

When  the  warrior  arrives  on  some  far  distant  shore, 
And  hails  a  bright  prospect  of  success  afar ; 

When  he  fights,  sword  in  hand,  over  fields  red  with 
gore, 
Or  faints  with  fatigue  'mid  the  hard  toils  of  war— 


SONG. 


151 


Then  the  husbandman  cheerfully  follows  his  plough, 

Nor  envies  the  vetVan  his  costlier  dome ; 
Though  his  bread  be  obtained  by  the  sweat  of  hi& 
brow, 
He  ^s  encircled,  the  while,  by  the  sweet  clmrm  of 
home. 


III. 
When  the  statesman,  pursuing  his  intricate  path,' 

Labors  hard  to  accomplish  some  favorite  design  ; 
Or,  perhaps  disappointed,  is  foaming  with  wrath, 

And  would  gladly  his  station  and  honors  resijgn — 
Then  the  farmer  his  harvest  exultingly  views ; 

With  a  mind  all  at  ease,  he  desires  not  to  roam. 
For  Nature  around  him  her  charms  ever  strews. 

Combined  with  the  sweet  soothing  halo  of  home. 


THE  BREEZES  OF  SPRING. 


Huzza  for  the  breezes  of  Spring, 
As  they  float  from  a  far  summer  sky  ; 

So  exciting  the  tidings  they  bring, 
The  May-flower  has  opened  its  eye. 
Huzza  for  the  breezes  of  Spring ! 

The  fetters  that  fastened  the  rill, 
And  held  it  in  bandages  strong, 

Are  broken ;  it  bursts  from  the  hih — 
How  sweetly  it  murmurs  along. 
Huzza,  &c. 


Like  a  spirit  returning  to  light, 
Its  pilgrimage  here  at  an  end  ; 

So  the  bird  has  accomplished  its  flight, 
Its  sweet  native  wilds  to  attend. 
Huzza,  &;c. 


THE   BREEZES   OF   SPRING. 


153 


And  echo  repeats,  as  ihey  sing, 

From  the  scene  of  their  wild  lullaby, 

Where  first,  upon  tremulous  wing. 
They  dared  the  blue  vault  of  the  sky. 
Huzza,  &c. 


'  i 


rl 


The  wild-wood  is  vocal  with  glee. 
The  valleys  are  bathed  in  the  sun  ; 

The  grass,  as  it  springs  from  the  lee, 
Kejoices  that  winter  is  done. 
Huzza,  &c. 

And  shall  man,  (while  on  every  side 
Joy  and  gladness  their  echoes  prolong,) 

Turn  away  from  the  full  flowing  tide. 
Nor  add  his  response  to  the  song  ? 
Huzza,  &;c. 


Above,  and  around  him,  is  heard. 

Nature's  mellowing,  varying  strain — 
The  cascade,  and  the  song  of  the  bird. 
While  the  lambs  bleat  aloud  on  the  plain. 
Huzza,  &c. 
11 


154 


THE  BREEZES   OF   SPRING. 


And  shall  man,  who  should  herald  the  choir, 
Suspect  the  great  Author  of  day, 

And  fearful  of  Nature's  great  Sire, 
From  the  echoing  hymn  turn  away  ? 
Huzza,  &c. 


Superstition,  ah !  why  shouldst  thou  darken. 

Or  prejudice  fetter  his  soul  ? 
To  that  hymn  nature  prompts  him  to  hearken- 

He  would  shout  if  not  under  control. 
Huzza,  &c. 


mmmm 


I 


AUTUMN,  I  LOVE  THEE. 


»» 


I. 

"  Autumn,  I  love  thee  when  thy  winds  are  low,' 
And  thy  sear  leaf  floats  softly  from  its  bough, 
Agaift  alighting  on  that  earth 
From  whence  it  first  derived  its  birth. 
May  I,  when  life  has  past. 
Thus  calmly  fall  at  last ; 
Resigned  in  death. 
Thus  yield  my  breath, 
Without  one  lingering  look  o'er  earth's  wild  ocean 
cast. 


156 


AUTUMN,   I    LOVE   THEE. 


TI. 

When  Sol,  retiring  on  his  southern  car, 
Leaves  purer  azure  beaming  from  afar, 
A  softer  charm  seems  spread  around. 
At  once  inspiring  thought  profound  ; — 
A  stroll  is  lovely  then. 
Through  field,  or  grove,  or  glen  ; 
Our  bosoms  warm. 
Beneath  the  charm 
Spread  out  by  nature's  God  o'er  this  abode  of  men. 


III. 
Autumn,  I  love  thee  when  thy  winds  are  high, 
And  darkening  mists  involve  thy  azure  sky ; 
When  clouds  of  leaves  rush  madly  past, 
Or  hover  in  the  eddying  blast. 
The  cataract  which  poured 
At  morn,  and  loudly  roared, 
Like  voice  of  war. 
Heard  from  afar, 
Is  hushed  amid  the  din,  nor  does  one  sound  afford. 


'' 


AUTUMN,   I    LOVE   THEE. 


IV. 


157 


When  night  at  length  kts  fall  its  sable  screen, 
Gust  following  gust  with  scarce  a  pause  between, 
While  the  tempest-loving  raven 
Dares  not  wing  his  native  heaven, 
But  hastes  away  to  hide 
Low  in  the  mountain  side  ; 
To  mark  the  scowl. 
Or  list  the  howl 
Of  elemental  strife,  humbling  old  nature's  pride. 

V. 

Autumn,  I  love  thee  when  at  such  an  hour, 
Beneath  a  roof,  unshaken  by  the  power 
Of  storms,  I  sit  and  bask  the  while 
In  fond  affection's  thrilling  smile. 
'T  is  this  can  yield  delight, 
To  cheer  the  stormiest  night ; 
And  round  our  head 
A  halo  spread. 
Sweet  as  midsummer's  morn  just  bursting  on  our 
sight. 


mmm 


158 


AUTUMN,   I   LOVE    THEE. 


VI. 

Without  this  charm,  an  Eden  would  be  found 
A  lonely  spot  of  unavailing  sound. 
Likewise,  a  friend  with  eye  of  fire. 
At  such  an  hour  I  would  desire  ; 
Whose  bosom,  nobly  warm. 
Could  soar  above  the  storm. 
And  there  enjoy, 
V\  ithout  alloy. 
Soft  sunshine  and  repose  where  tempests  ne'er  de- 
form. 


VII. 
Against  the  shutters,  then,  the  storm  may  dash, 
And  trembling  forests  tumble  with  a  crash  ; 
Our  glowing  tapers  then  shall  join. 
And  books  and  music,  too,  combine  ; 
Nor  shall  the  storm  appall. 
But  purer  thoughts  recall. 
While  round  the  hearth, 
In  social  mirth, 
We  stir  the  cheerful  blaze,  and  list  the  torrent's  fall. 


Pi 


mmmmmmm 


AUTUMN,    I    LOVE    THEE. 
VIII. 

Above  the  lofty  atmospheric  bound, 
Where  soft  serenity  is  ever  foaud, 
At  such  an  hour,  on  buoyant  wing, 
Our  thoughts  shall  rise  to  nature's  King, 
Whose  might  each  storm  displays  ; 
Whose  power  red  light'nings  blaze  ; 
Whose  mandate  binds 
The  rudest  winds ; 
And  light'ning's  fiercest  flash  implicitly  obeys. 


159 


HYMN. 


When  frowning  clouds  obscure  the  sky. 
And  light'nings  flash  from  pole  to  pok, 

And  rending  thunder  rolls  on  high, 
What  then  can  calm  my  troubled  soul  ? 
'T  is  Christ,  alone,  can  make  uie  whole. 

When  raging  winds  tempestuous  beat. 
And  darkness  lords  without  control, 

All  nature  quivering  to  her  seat. 

What  can  compose  my  troubled  soul  ? 
'T  is  Christ,  alone,  can  make  me  whole. 


When  tossed  on  ocean's  boisterous  wave. 
Where  mountains  high  the  billows  roll, 

All  hope  escaped  the  barque  to  save, 
What  can  compose  my  troubled  soul  ? 
'T  is  Christ,  alone,  can  make  me  whole. 


HiiiP 


HYMN. 


161 


When  my  best  friend  has  just  expired, 
And  his  death-bell  begins  to  toll, 

And  raging  grief  my  brain  has  fired. 
What  then  can  calm  my  phrenzied  soul  ? 
'T  is  Christ,  alone,  can  make  me  whole. 

When  my  last  glass  begins  its  race. 
And  none  my  sorrows  can  control. 

And  Death  stands  staring  in  my  face — 
What  then  can  calm  my  anxious  soul  ? 
'T  is  Christ,  alone,  can  make  me  whole. 

When  my  breast  heaves  its  latest  sigh. 
And  Jordan's  floods  around  me  roll. 

And  death  has  closed  my  languid  eye — 
Savior  of  men,  receive  my  soul : 
'T  is  thou,  alone,  canst  make  me  whole. 


Then  will  I,  with  seraphic  fire, 
In  strains  sublime  thy  name  extol ; 

While  Time,  and  all  Time's  things  expire, 
And  endless  ages  round  me  roll — 
'T  is  thou,  alone,  canst  make  me  whole. 


mm 


mmm 


RETURN. 


The  chill  damps  of  midnight  around   him   were 
falling, 
And  nature's  dim  outline  peeped  forth,  then  re- 
tired ; 
While  the  mist-shrouded  hills,  as  he  passed,  seemed 
recalling 
The  balmy  repose  wearied  nature  required  ; 
But  affection's  deep  thrill  in  his  bosom  was  swelling, 
Waked  to  life  every  nerve  and  replenished  each 
vein, 
When  he  thought  on  the  brook,  murmuring  slow  by 
his  dwelling. 
And   the   nurslings   who  wept   to  embrace  him 
again. 


mmmmm 


RETURN. 


163 


For  a  moment  his  thoughts  o'er  his  boyhood  were 
straying, 
And  time-faded  joys  seemed  awakening  there, 
As  he  passed  the  green  mound  where  he  once  had 
been  playing, 
A  gay,  thoughtless  school-boy,  unfettered  by  care  ; 
We  would  tell,  (but  our  pen  at  the  task  is  rebelling,) 
His  delight  when  his  cot  burst  again  on  his  view  ; 
How  he  leaped  o'er  the  brook,  murmuring  slow  by 
his  dwelling. 
While  home's  sacred  charm  spread  around  him 


% 


^\ 


anew. 


On  that  threshhold,  again,  where  his  babes  oft  had 
sought  him, 
Where  his  fondest  dreams  led  since  his  journey 
began, 
There  he  paused, — to  remember  that  power  who  had 
brought  him. 
And  nature's  deep  stillness  approved  of  the  plan  : 
Not  a  stir,  save  the  leaf  on  the  night-wind  was  telling. 

As  it  stole  through  the  poplar  unnoticed  before  ; 
While  the  voice  of  the  brook,  murmuring  slow  by 
his  dwelling. 
Lent  a  charm  to  the  scene  as  he  knocked  at  the 
door. 


REMEMBER  ME. 


I. 

When  Spring  has  returned,  and  the  wild  bird  is 
singing 

To  winter  a  requiem,  shrilly  and  loud. 
And  joy's  fairy  spirit  to  nature  is  clinging, 

Like  n  lover  returned  to  perform  what  he  vowed — 
O,  remember  me,  then,  when  you  stroll  by  yon  river. 

And  scent  the  wild  blossoms  that  spangle  the  tree  ; 
Yes,  I  know  that  my  loved  one,  as  constant  as  ever. 

Will  even  then  cherish  love's  blossom  for  me. 

II. 

When  the  deep  charm  of  Summer  around  thee  is 
glowing. 

And  lovely  as  Eden  the  landscape  appears, 
A  full  tide  of  fragrance  on  Nature  bestowing, 

Who  exults  as  a  youth  in  the  prime  of  his  years — 


SEMEMBER  ME. 


165 


0,  remember  me,  then,  as  you  pass  by  yon  wild-wood, 
Or  at  morn,  gaze  on  nature,  with  diadems  set ; — 

When  at  eve  you  contemplate  those  scenes  of  my 
childhood — 
Yes,  I  know  that  my  loved  one  will  never  forget. 

III. 

When  Sol,  to  his  more  Southern  chambers  retiring. 

Calls  the  warbler  away  from  its  frost-stricken  bough. 
And  Autumn  a  wreath  of  red  leaves  is  requiring. 

To  hang  with  menace  on  his  gathering  brow — 
O,  remember  me,  then,  as  you  walk  in  yon  garden, 

And  pluck  the  ripe  apple  I  fostered  for  thee  ; 
'T  is  not  that  I  dream  your  fond  bosom  could  harden. 

For  I  know  that  my  loved  one  is  constant  to  me. 


IV. 

Though  fortune  and  fame,  with  their  lures  all  before 
me. 

Invite  me  awhile  from  my  loved  ones  to  roam. 
How  oft  shall  a  vision  of  fancy,  restore  me 

Again  the  sweet  forms  I  so  ardently  love ; 
1  '11  remember  you,  then,  though  the  ocean  be  piling 

Its  broad  swells  between  us,  resplendent  with  foam, 
For  fancy,  my  loneliest  moments  beguiling, 

Shall  entrance  me  again,  in  the  halo  of  home. 


166 


REMEMBER  ME. 


V. 

Again  shall  that  thrill  of  affection  come  o'er  me, 
As  when  to  this  bosom  those  loved  ones  were 
pressed ; 
For  distance  shall  hie,  as  a  phantom  before  me, 

All  home's  sacred  joys  for  the  moment  confessed. 

I  '11  remember  you,  then,  though  some  meadow  I  'm 

strolling 

Unknown,  save  the  outline  which  fancy  hath  drawn. 

Though  the  sun  shining  brightly,  or  thunder  be  rolling ; 

Though  I  rove  the  wild  upland,  or  pace  the  rich 

lawn. 


VI. 
Though  serenely  the  sweets  of  repose  may  be  steal- 
ing, 
Or  birds  of  bright  plume  chaunt  melodious  lays ; 
Though  around  me  the  organ's  deep  notes  may  be 
pealing, 
To  hail  the  sweet  morning  when  saints  meet  to 
praise. 
I  '11  remember  you,  then,  and  invoke  Heaven's  pro- 
tection, 
Though  strangers  in  masses  around  me  beset ; 
For  memory  shall  waken  a  gush  of  affection, 
'Till  this  heart  ceases  beating  I  shall  not  forget. 


wmm 


PASTOR'S   FAREWELL. 


And  must  I  bid  a  long  farewell 
To  you,  my  friends,  forever  dear  ? 

How  shall  I  check  the  sorrowing  swell, 
Or  how  suppress  the  starting  tear  ? 

No  more  toward  this  sacred  pile, 

Your  slowly^ solemn  steps  I  '11  trace, 
No  more  I  '11 


your  placid  smile. 
As  I  approach  the  hallowed  place. 

Could  I  but  hope  we  all  should  meet 
On  Canaan's  thrice  delightful  shore. 

Then  could  I  go  with  joyous  feet. 
Could  wipe  mine  eyes  and  weep  no  more. 


im^^^mm^mm 


■■■■I 


mmmmm 


168 


pastor's  farewell. 


But  ah !  I  fear  this  cannot  be, 

For  Sonne  this  sacred  word  despise  : 

Oh !  sinners,  from  destruction  flee, 
Before  the  avenging  arrow  flies. 

But  you  whose  hearts  are  void  of  guile, 
And  joyous  greet  Immanuel's  reign, 

To  you,  I  say  farewell  awhile, 

'Mid  brighter  scenes  we  '11  meet  again. 

When  memory  to  my  mind  recalls. 
Or  wakens  some  delightful  hour 

We  've  spent  within  these  hallowed  walls, 
Beneath  religion's  heavenly  power, — 

Then,  though  in  foreign  lands  I  roam, 
And  oceans  vast  between  us  roll, 

I  '11  pray  for  this,  my  early  home. 
And  calm  the  tra^isports  of  my  soul. 


I  '11  ask  of  Him  who  reigns  above, 

Whose  presence  fills  earth's  wide  domain. 

To  bless  and  crown  you  with  his  love, 
That  we  may  joyous  meet  again. 


pastor's  farewell. 


169 


When  nature,  wrapped  in  flame,  expires. 
And  an  assembled  world  appears  ; 

Secure  amid  surrounding  fires. 

We  Ml  wing  our  way  to  brighter  spheres  ; 

And  there  commence  our  blissful  songs, 
To  the  great  shepherd  of  the  fold ; 

While  vast  eternity  prolongs 
The  echoing  strains  on  harps  of  gold. 


12 


HYMN. 


How  lovely  to  taste  the  sweet  breath  of  the  gale, 

When  summer,  arrayed  in  its  pride. 
Bids  us  wander  abroad,  o'er  the  sweet  scented  vale, 

Where  the  flowers  sweetly  bloom  at  our  side. 

The  song  of  the  bird,  as  it  sits  in  the  grove. 

Delightfully  falls  on  our  ears ; 
And  nature  seems  glowing  with  charms  from  above 

To  enliven  this  valley  of  tears. 

When  we  pause  in  our  path,  the  bright  scenes  to 
survey. 

Then  our  thoughts  should  ascend  to  the  skies, — 
To  nature's  great  author,  the  giver  of  day, 

Whose  goodness  those  blessings  supplies. 


HYMN. 


171 


He  hears  the  gay  bird  when  it  calls  for  its  food ; 

He  sustains  every  creature  that  lives  ; 
Then  his  children  shall  surely  enjoy  every  good, 

Since  freely,  for  asking,  he  gives. 

Then  let  us  awake,  while  the  bird's  early  note 
Bids  the  morn  from  its  slumbers  arise  ; 

On  the  first  balmy  zephyr  his  praises  shall  float. 
Nor  linger  'till  borne  to  the  skies. 

And  angels  shall  listen,  with  joy  on  each  brow. 
To  hear  from  'midst  earth's  thousand  cares, 

Their  sovereign's  praises  ascending  on  high, 
And  mingling  in  concert  with  theirs. 


SUMMER  EVENING. 


I. 

We  own  a  charm  of  heightened  power, 

When  summer^s  eve  steals  o'er  the  plain, 
And  peace  of  mind,  to  soothe  the  hour, 

Bids  care  resign  its  chafing  rein. 
A  thousand  charms  combined,  descend 

And  tv,  Ine  around  th'  enraptured  soul ; 
While  stillness,  too,  the  muse's  friend, 

Holds  every  passion  in  control. 

n. 

Like  lover's  sigh,  the  lingering  breeze 
Low  whispering  as  it  moves  along  ; 

The  birds  retiring  to  the  trees 
To  chaunt  their  latest  evening  song ; 


SUMMER   EVENING. 


173 


The  landscape,  nearing  to  the  view, 
With  deep  inspiring  garb  arrayed  ; 

The  clouds  which  shed  a  purple  hue, 
And  add  new  beauties  to  the  shade  ; — 

ITI. 

All  blending  then,  at  such  an  hour, 

Conspire  to  elevate  the  mind, 
And  lend  to  thought  a  nobler  power 

To  leave  low  passions  all  behind  ; 
If  haply  o'er  the  dewy  glade. 

Like  eve's  last  zephyr,  soft  and  freCj 
Comes  meditation,  silent  maid. 

To  sweeten  all  the  harmony  ; — 


IV. 

Then,  as  on  eagle's  airy  wing, 

Away  to  other  scenes  we  haste. 
Where  beams  an  everlasting  spring, 

SecUiO  from  winter's  weary  waste  ; 
Where  roses,  in  perpetual  bloom. 

Each  morn  their  sacred  leaves  expand  ;- 
We  almost  catch  the  sweet  perfume 

As  wafted  o'er  that  hippy  land. 


174 


SUMMER   EVENING. 


V. 

So  flits  the  bird,  on  gold-tipped  wing, 

O'er  meadows  beauteously  arrayed; 
Borne  on  the  vernal  breath  of  spring, 

O'er  flowery  fields  from  shade  to  shade  ; 
At  every  flight  new  sweets  arise, 

And  all  the  landscape  lovelier  grows  ; 
When  lo  !  she  finds  her  native  skies, 

And  there  enjoys  her  own  repose. 


PSALM  CXLVIII 


O,  PRAISE  the  Lord,  the  Eternal  tring, 
Ye  angels  hov'ring  round  His  throne  ; 

While  saints  soft  halleluiahs  sing. 
To  make  His  boundless  glories  known. 

Praise  Him,  thou  orient  soul  of  day, 
On  thee  His  power  is  full  displayed  ; 

While  moon  and  stars,  with  fainter  ray, 
Arise  and  praise  Him  in  the  shade. 


Let  Heaven,  and  all  that  Heaven  contains, 
In  one  grand  anthem  sound  His  praise ; 

While  men  below,  in  humbler  strains, 
Extol  His  wisdom  and  His  grace. 


ilM 


176 


PSALM   CXLVIII. 


*T  was  from  His  all-creating  word 
That  universal  nature  sprung  ; 

'T  is  still  supported  by  the  Lord — 
Then  be  His  praise  forever  sung. 


Let  snow,  and  hail,  and  rain,  and  fire. 
And  stormy  winds  their  powers  combine, 

To  chaunt  a  hymn  to  nature's  Sire, 
And  swell  a  chorus  so  divine. 

Let  lofty  mountains  all  rejoice. 

And  fruitful  trees,  and  cedars  high  ; 

While  evury  beast  exalts  his  voice. 
And  birds  above  the  earth  that  fly. 


Praise  Him,  ye  rulers  of  the  land. 
Remember  he  is  Lord  of  all : 

Your  power  is  wholly  in  His  hand, 
He  speaks,  and  empires  rise  or  fall. 


Let  young  and  old  still  bless  the  Lord, 
Whose  glory  fills  both  earth  and  heaven  ; 

He  over  keeps  His  holy  word  ; 
To  Him  eternal  praise  be  given. 


^mm^ 


mn 


HEBREWS,  FIRST  CHAPTER 


That  God,  who  reared  yon  starry  frame, — 

(Earth  bow  while  we  pronounce  His  name,)- 

God,  who  at  sundry  times,  revealed 

What  else  must  have  remained  concealed, 

By  holy  prophets,  men  inspired. 

Whose  hearts  with  zeal  for  God  were  fired — 

In  these  last  times  has  sent  His  son  ; 

A  brighter  era  has  begun. 

Th'  eternal  God  proclaims  't  was  He 

Who  formed  the  earth,  and  air,  and  sea ; 

Tne     tther's  glory  shines  afar 

From  this  conspicuous  morning  star. 


178 


HEBREWS,   FIRST   CHAPTER. 


i 


Whose  rays  illume  man's  dark  abode, 
And  reconcile  him  to  his  God. 
Though  now,  enthroned  at  God's  right  hand, 
He  fills  with  joy  bright  Canaan's  land. 
And  pleads  for  man  what  He  has  done. 
Though  angels  bow  before  His  throne. 
The  brightest  seraph  sings  His  praise. 
Responsive  to  the  blissful  lays —    ' 
With  face  concealed  beneath  his  wings, 
"  Worthy  the  Lamb  that  died,"  he  sings. 
Well  pleased,  the  Father  owns  his  Son  ; 
The  gospel  age  is  now  begun ; 
Shout,  men  below,  and  hosts  above, 
The  wonders  of  redeeming  love. 
Thy  throne,  O  God,  shall  last  for  aye — 
Thy  righteous  sceptre  thou  shalt  sway — 
Thou  lovest  right,  and  hatest  ill. 
Therefore  shall  God  exalt  thee,  still ; 
With  oil  of  gladness,  too,  annoint  thee. 
And  the  preeminence  appoint  thee. 


HEBREWS,   FIRST   CHAPTER. 


179 


'T  was  from  Thy  hand  this  wondrous  earth — 

Nay,  Heaven  itself — derived  its  birth ; 

Though  these  are  subject  to  decay, 

And  as  a  garment  waste  away  ; 

Though  as  a  vest  they  changed  be. 

No  lapse  of  years  brings  change  to  Thee. 

When  thousand  years  their  course  have  run, 

Thy  reign  will  only  have  begun — 

'T  will  be,  when  countless  years  roll  in, 

But  just  beginning  to  begin. 

Thrice  happy  angels  round  Thee,  still. 

Rejoice  to  do  Thy  sov'reign  will ; 

To  these  the  great  command  is  given. 

To  guard  the  ransomed  safe  to  Heaven. 


HOW  SWEET  TO  STROLL. 


How  sweet  to  stroll  beside  the  harvest  field, 
When  Luna's  milder  beams,  o'er  earth  revealed, 
Invite  to  wander  o'er  the  teded  grass. 
And  mark  the  dew-drops  sparkling  as  wc  pass  : 
Pass  we  the  silvery  flood,  then  view  the  lake. 
Delighted  with  the  dancing  moon-lit  streak ; 
Or  gaze  beneath,  where  trees  depending  grow, 
"  And  other  skies  seem  answering  from  below." 
It  seems  a  world  where  spirits  might  repose 
Unmoved  by  storms,  or  sound  of  human  woes ; 
Rest  undisturbed,  beyond  the  ills  of  time. 
Mingling  their  voices  in  one  song  sublime. 


HOW   SWEET   TO   STROLL.  181 

Back  to  the  diamond-sparkling  arch,  that  spreads 
In  thrilling  grandeur  o'er  our  puny  heads  ; 
At  Luna's  coming,  mark  the  stars  grow  dim, 
And  in  her  soft  effulgence  calmly  swim  ; 
Almost  our  spirits  seem  to  soar  afar, 
And  view  that  world's  vast  wonders  as  they  are. 


' 


SONG. 


I. 

Stbrn  winter's  icy  breezes  blow, 

And  curl  the  white  wreath  round  the  door  ; 
Earth  sleeps  beneath  a  garb  of  snow, 

And  song  of  birds  is  heard  no  more. 
The  ice-bound  rill  is  heard  to  moan, 

Or  screaming,  seems  for  aid  to  call ; 
While  darkness  reascends  his  throne, 

And  sways  his  sceptre  over  all. 


II. 

Yet  not  the  more  does  love  retire. 
When  winter's  icy  breezes  fly  ; 

But  seated  round  the  cheering  fire, 
'T  is  then  he  swells  our  bosoms  high. 


SONG. 


183 


Nature  beneath  his  grasp  may  mourn, 
As  he,  loud  bellowing  o'er  the  plain, 

Forbids  the  rivers  to  return 

Back  to  their  crested  fields  again. 

III. 
But  never  shall  the  tyrant  hold 

Dominion  over  hearts  like  ours : 
In  Cupid's  legions  we  're  enrolled. 

Nor  fear  his  fast  congealing  powers. 
No,  by  those  chaste,  but  gleesome  wiles, 

And  by  those  eyes  which  speak  so  plain, 
And  by  those  soft  and  melting  smiles. 

We  will  dissolve  his  icy  chain. 


IV. 

The  nymphs  who  dwell  in  softer  climes 

We  know  were  never  half  so  fair ; 
No  lilies  waken  other  times, 

Nor  do  such  roses  blossom  there. 
Then  let  old  winter  rave  along. 

And  marshaled  lead  his  fiercest  storm, 
We  '11  disregard, — while  mirth  and  song, 

And  beauty's  smile  our  bosoms  warm. 


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SONG. 


I. 
When  the  soft  voice  of  love 

Like  a  charm  first  came  o^er  me, 
How  could  I  but  approve, 

With  an  Edmund  before  me  ? 
When  he  vowed  that  a  smile 

Would  give  peace  to  his  bosom, 
Could  a  heart  void  of  guile 

Such  a  favor  refuse  him  ? 


II. 
Oft  when  eve  spreads  along 

O^er  the  nightingale^s  numbers. 
Or  the  lark^s  mellow  song 

Wakes  the  morn  from  its  slumbers, 


SONG. 

Then  I  dream  't  is  the  voice 
Of  his  lute,  stealing  o'er  me  ; 

But,  awaking,  their  noise 
Like  a  shade  flits  before  me. 

III. 
Then  the  soft  serenade. 

So  delightfully  charming, — 
ft  was  Edward  who  played. 

Every  scruple  disarming : 
They  may  laugh  at  my  choice, 

Or  to  shake  it  endeavor, — 
Let  me  hear  but  his  voice, 

I  '11  be  tranquil  as  ever. 

IV. 

It  was  down  in  yon  vale, 

Where  the  lark  hides  its  treasure, 
That  he  breathed  his  love-tale, 

Whilst  I  listened  with  pleasure  ; 
There  he  vowed  o'er  and  o'er, 

Say  what  nymph  could  refuse  him  ?- 
I  '11  ask  fate  for  no  more 

Than  repose  in  his  bosom. 
13 


185 


f 


mmmm 


m 


SONG. 


I. 

Vhen  Edmund  stole  Amelia's  heart, 

And  in  return  bestowed  his  own, 
Then  Cupid,  smiling,  sheathed  his  dart, 

And  left  the  lovers  all  alone. 
Then  Edmund  gazed  in  fond  delight, 

And  breathed  his  vows  all  o'er  again  ; 
Amelia's  smile  said  all  was  right, 

And  flushed  with  joy  the  happy  swain. 


0 


II. 

Now,  hand  in  hand  they  pace  the  mead, 
While  at  each  step  new  beauties  spring  ; 

The  lark,  which  hovered  o'er  his  head, 
Was  never  known  so  sweet  to  sing ; 


wmmum 


SONG. 


187 


Flowers,   '\e  had  oft  unheeded  passed, 
Now  wore  new  beauties  to  her  eye, 

AhJ  earth  appeared  a  theatre  vast 
Of  undissembled  harmony. 

III. 
The  day  was  set ;— I  saw  them  stand 

At  Hymen's  altar,  blithe  and  gay ; 
The  blushing  fair  bestowed  her  hand. 

And  Edmund  hailed  the  auspicious  day  ; 
Convivial  mirth  and  joyous  song, 

And  the  soft  flute's  melodious  strains, 
While  the  gay  dance  was  led  along 

By  beauteous  nymphs  and  happy  swains. 

TV. 

But  you  whose  breast  has  never  known 

What 't  is  to  love,  to  hope,  to  fear  ; 
Whose  heart  ne'er  trembled  on  its  throne. 

But  view  the  fair  with  look  austere ; 

To  you,  I  say,  if  aught  on  earth 

Can  spread  a  halo  o'er  mankind, 
Pure  as  it  was  at  nature's  birth, — 

That  charm  is  love  when  well  refined. 


188 


SONG. 


V. 

When  Adam,  midst  the  blooming  bowers 

Of  Eden,  o'er  creation  reigned, 
He  viewed,  alone,  the  opening  flowers, 

And  of  his  loneliness  complained  : 
But  when  the  beauteous,  blushing  Eve 

Adorned  his  sacred,  sweet  retreat, 
His  joy  was  full  ;r-no  more  he  grieved, 

But  owned  his  happiness  complete. 


APOLOGY. 


I. 

*T  IS  due  to  you,  ladies,  and  I  must  confess  it, 

The  pang  of  regret  which  my  bosom  must  feel ; — 
When  you  ask  fo:.  a  song,  and  so  earnestly  press  it. 

Lest  you  should  consider  my  heart  made  of  steel. 
Were  it  not  that  my  voice  is  indeed  unendurable, 

I  had  surely  commenced  ere  insisting  began  ; 
I  have  used  every  effort,  but  find  it  incurable — 

Ladies,  excuse  me,  I  pray,  if  you  can. 


II. 

Reflections  like  these,  very  often  have  driven 
Me  far  down  some  valley,  to  wander  alone  ; 

Where,  musing  on  seasons  like  this,  I  have  striven 
To  conjure  my  voice  a  more  mellowing  tone — 


190 


APOLOGY. 


But  alas !  U  was  in  vain ;  e^en  the  birds  seemed  to 
fear  me, 
And  Echo,  afTrighted,  retired  to  the  hill ; 
While  I,  (gazing  round  lest  some  mortal  were  near 
me,) 
Was  humming,  and  starting,  alternately  still. 


IH. 

I  must  own,  with  regret,  that  dame  Nature  refused  me 

Those  musical  tones  you  so  richly  possess ; 
Though  I  may  not  repine,  yet  I  think  she  ill-used  me. 

Since  nothing  intrinsic  remains  in  redress. 
It  is  said,  love  and  music  forever  are  blended, — 

That  one  hides  its  head  'nealh  the  other's  soft  wing ; 
It  is  false  as  the  meteor  last  evening  suspended. 

For  I  vow  I  can  love — but  alas !  I  can 't  sing. 


SONG. 


'Midst  the  cares  of  this  life, 

And  the  ills  which  surround, 
True  content  with  the  wealthy 

Has  seldom  been  found  ; 
E'en  the  proud  have  allowed 

That  she  dwells  with  the  poor ; 
Who  can,  just  unoppressed. 

Keep  the  wolf  from  the  door  ? 


They  awake,  in  the  morn. 
From  a  sweeter  repose 

Than  luxury  e'er 

On  its  vot'ry  bestows ; 


w 


w 


192 


SONG. 


With  a  breast  all  at  rest, 
And  a  head  never  sore, 

They  're  away,  that  they  may 
Keep  the  wolf  from  the  door. 


Then  let  us  not  envy 

The  wealthy  and  gay  ; 
The  time  hastens  on 

When  we  all  must  away. 
Even  age  is  a  stage 

Whose  poor  play  is  soon  o'er. 
Soundly  sleep,  while  you  keep 

Just  the  wolf  from  the  door. 


I 


SONG. 


As  when  two  lovers  meet  by  a  murmuring  stream, 
Where  a  grove,  decked  in   foliage   of  spring, 
cheers  the  dale. 

The  hours  pass  unheeded,  like  moments  they  seem, 
'Till  the  lark's  evening  note  dies  away  on  the  gale. 

So  when  friendship's  pure  glow  flows  from  bosoms 
refined. 
Where  the  sweet  goddess.  Virtue,  exerts  all  her 
charms, 
Then,  though  fortune  should  frown,  they  may  still 
be  resigned. 
And  a  haven  of  peace  find  in  each  others  arms. 

All  their  joys  or  their  sorrows  they  safely  impart. 
While  a  pleasure  or  sympathy,  real  and  sincere, 

Brightly  beams  from  their  eyes,  for  it  flows  from  the 
heart ; — 
Such  a  friendship  as  this  we  should  ever  revere. 


SONG. 


Ah  me !  my  very  heart '    bleeding, 

Torn  from  all  it  holds  so  dear ; 
While  pang  on  pang,  my  anguish  feeding, 

Must  excrse  the  starting  tear. 

Ah  !  cruel  fate,  how  canst  thou  sever 

Hearts,  whom  nature  joins  as  one. 
And  gilds  with  joy  ?  say,  wilt  thou  ever 

Cause  to  rise  a  brighter  sun  ? 

But  hark  !  hope,  whispering,  soothes  his  bosom  ; 

Fortune  yet  shall  sweetly  smile  ; 
Though  now  her  favors  she  refuse  him, 

Henry's  cares  she  will  beguile. 

For  every  freak  which  she  has  played  him, 

Some  large  favor  shall  repay  ; 
When  even  those  scenes  which  most  dismayed  him, 

Like  frightful  dreams  have  passed  away. 


CAN  I  FORGET. 


I. 
Can  I  forget  those  joys,  divinely  prized, 

Which  memory,  fond,  so  oft  around  me  strews  ? 
Can  other  joys  by  me  be  realized 

Of  SAveeter  savor,  or  of  richer  hues  ? 
Can  other  groves?— No,  never  shall  this  heart, 

Where  fond  aifection  early  learned  to  glow. 
Confess  thy  rival,  or  the  smallest  part 

So  justly  thine,  on  other  shades  bestow. 


11. 

Can  I  forget  those  hours  of  bliss  serene. 

Ere  jare  had  learned  to  revel  in  this  breast,— 

When  in  earth's  sweetest  voice,  with  placid  mien, 
Maternal  fondness  lulled  my  soul  to  rest  ? 


196 


CAN   I   FORGET. 


When  e'en  the  kite  and  butterfly  had  charms, 
Transcending  all  that  nature  now  bestows ; 

No  wild  ambition,  fraught  with  rude  alarms, 
Disturbed  my  morning  mind  of  its  repose. 


III. 
Can  I  forget  those  oft  repeated  tours 

Along  the  margin  of  my  native  vale,  ^ 

When  balmy  pleasure  winged  the  sunny  hours, 

And  bade  my  bosom  all  its  sweets  inhale  ? 
While  nature,  glowing  in  her  richest  dress. 

Bedecked  the  blushing  landscape  with  her  smile  ; 
And  beauties,  language  fails  me  to  express, 

Were  hovering  there,  the  season  to  beguile. 


n 


IV. 

While  Musquodoboit,  with  untiring  roll. 

Moves  down  the  vale  to  kiss  the  distant  main  ; 
Still  shall  new  transports  gleam  upon  my  soul, 

When  I  review  those  halcyon  hours  again. 
While  memory,  with  discriminating  powers, 

(For  with  our  earliest  moments  ills  are  found,) 
Shall  leave  the  thorns  and  cull  the  honied  flowers. 

To  cheer  my  path   ,nd  soothe  my  loneliest  round. 


< 


CAN   I   FORGET. 


197 


V. 

Say,  can  the  swain  whose  nobly  generous  breast 

Breathes  all  the  raptures  purest  love  inspires, — 
Can  he  forget  those  vows  so  oft  expressed, 

Nor  hail  the  fair  who  fans  those  pleasing  fires  ? 
He  may  ;  but  when  those  kindlings  of  my  soul 

Forget  that  home  of  friends  I  held  so  dear, — 
Then  let  each  passion  from  this  bosom  roll. 

And,  shut  to  thought,  oblivion  centre  there. 


I 


t 


i!0ii»ip.ij  ij  «iwt»iww*r«#^^|>^Bj|iTfj|jjm  ii 


'TIS  PLEASING. 


i 


I. 

'T  IS  pleasing,  when  we  find  our  early  friend 

Stands  firm,  although  misfortune's  shafts  assail  us  ; 

How  confidently  calm  we  can  depend 

On  him ;  and  in  return  naught  could  avail  us. 

'T  is  pleasing,  when  soft  April  showers  descend, 
Or  when  exhilarating  wines  regale  us. 

'T  is  pleasing,  when  autumnal  fruits  appear. 

And  harvest  smiles  propitious  o'er  the  year. 


f 


f 


II. 

'T  is  pleasing,  to  observe  the  opening  flowers, 
And  taste  their  spicy  odor  on  the  gale  ; 

The  emulous  may  blend  their  noblest  powers. 
Yet  vainly  they  combine — their  pencils  fail. 


't  is  pleasing. 


199 


'T  is  pleasing  to  recline,  in  sultry  hours, 

Where  balmy  zephyrs  hide  along  the  vale 
In  sylvan  shades  ;  and  if  our  friend  be  there, 
How  holy,  then — the  scene  is  doubly  fair. 

III. 
'T  is  pleasing,  to  ambitious  men,  to  dream 

Of  wealth  and  honors  following  in  succession  ; 
Oft  does  anticipation  catch  a  gleam 

Of  joy,  more  grateful  than  the  full  possession. 
To  quaff  delights  from  Liberty's  pure  stream 

Is  pleasing,  too,  after  some  dire  oppression. 
The  soul,  expanding,  revels  in  delight. 
Unknown,  while  all  our  atmosphere  was  bright. 


IV. 
More  pleasing,  yet,  than  these,  than  all,  to  taste. 

At  evening  fall,  the  sacred  sweets  of  home  ; 
To  see  our  loved  ones  crowd,  with  joyous  haste, 

Shouting,  exultingly,  "  Huzza  !  he 's  come ! " 
Our  bosoms  find  no  cold  or  dreary  waste  ; 

Nor  envy  we  the  towering,  princely  dome. 
To  its  possessor — dearer  to  each  heart 
That  holy  calm  which  home  and  love  impart. 


200 


TIS    PLEASING. 


V. 

Domestic  love,  fair  relic  of  the  skies ! 

Without  thy  cheering,  renovating  smile, 
Earth  had  been  left  a  chaos  of  surprise — 

A  rude,  unmeaning  mass  of  pain  and  toil. 
But,  blessed  by  thee,  the  dire  confusion  flies — 

The  desert  blooms,  and  cherishes  the  spoil ; 
Almost  an  Eden  stoops  again  to  earth, 
And  joy  holds  revel  round  the  cottage  hearth. 


I 


VNIVKBSAI.  HISTORV, 

FROM   THE 

CREATION  OF  THE  WORLD, 


I 


i 


TO  THE  BROINXING  OF  THE 

EIGHTEENTH    CENTURY. 

BY  THE  LATE 

HON.  ALEXANDER  FRASER  TYTLER, 

Lord   Woodhouselee,  Senator  of  the    College  of  Justice,  and 
Lord  Commissioner  of  Justiciary  in  Scotland,  and  former 
Professor  of  Civil  History,  and  Greek  and  Roman  An- 
tiquities in  the   University  of  Edinburgh. 

In  TWO  VOLUMES,  largc  octavo,  of  more  than  a  thousand 
PAGES,  with  a  complete  index. 

This  important  work  has  been  stereotyped  at  con  'f  erable 
expense,  and  is  now  published  in  the  moat  substantial  and 
attractive  form  by  the  subscriber,  and  at  a  price  so  reasona- 
ble, that  it  is  placed  within  the  means  of  the  humblest  citi- 
zen. 

By  persons  acquainted  with  the  reputation  of  the  distin- 
guished author  of  this  Work,  any  attempt  to  urge  his  claims, 
would  be  justly  deemed  a  labor  of  presumption.  By  those 
less  acquainted  with  his  eminent  merits,  a  few  words  may 
not  be  considered  as  inappropriate. 

Most  people  regard  all  Histories  essentially  alike ;  that  is, 
for  purposes  of  mere  information.  They  are  viewed  as 
magazines  of  facts,  to  be  drawn  upon  as  we  draw  words 
and  definitions  from  a  dictionary.  This  is  a  great  mistake. 
The  whole  of  any  thing  may  be  so  given  in  parts  as  hardly 
to  be  recognized  when  in  form,  and  the  parts  of  a  History 
may  be  so  disarranged  in  detail  as  to  present  a  confused  se- 
ries of  events  which  convey  no  definite  idea  of  system  or 
progress. 


u 


History  is  of  but  littlo  importance,  unless  it  affords  rules 
of  conduct,  either  for  individuals  or  nations,  and  if  an  author 
fails  to  combine  reflection  with  detail,  and  to  j^ive  in  philo- 
sophical order,  the  events  of  niition.s,  as  cciuseri  and  effects, 
as  they  naturally  transpire,  he  accomplishes  but  half  of  his 
task. 

In  thelTxivKiisAL  IIistouy  of  Mr.  Ty tier,  there  is  a  happy 
combination  of  the  events  f^iven,  their  relations  and  uses. 
The  atttuxtive  reader  may  be  taught  not  only  the  history  of 
the  past,  but  the  nrobablo  destiny  of  man  and  nations  in  all 
time  to  come.  lie  is  brouu;ht  in  relation  to  a  comprehen- 
sive view  of  the  FAcr.-i  of  the  world,  and  to  survey  the  extent 
of  m'm's  powers  and  the  true  lojific  of  knowledge.  lie  is 
led  to  setj  more  perfectly  that  chain  which  joins  effects  to 
causes ;  to  view  the  gradual  progress  of  manners,  the  ad- 
vancement of  man  from  barbarism  to  civilization,  and 
thence  to  reftnement  and  corruption ;  to  note  the  connec- 
tion of  States  and  Empires,  and  above  all,  to  realize  the 
greatest  benefit  of  History — its   utility  as  a  school  of 

BIOKALS. 

The  study  of  History  enables  a  person  to  have  within 
himself  not  only  a  standard  of  knowledge,  but  of  duty.  In 
view  of  these  considerations,  it  will  be  perceived  that  His- 
tory is  a  subject  of  the  utmost  magnitude,  and  that  the 
choice  of  an  author  becomes  a  serious  matter  of  inquiry. 

In  asking  particular  attention  to  this  edition  of  Tytlek, 
the  publisher  requires  no  better  voucher  for  the  correctness 
of  his  views  than  will  be  found  in  the  work  itself,  to  which 
he  would  confidently  and  respectfully  refer  all  Students, 
Tea-ihers  and  Professors,  in  the  hope  that  they  will  care- 
fully examine  it,  each  for  himself.  The  work  is  allowed  to 
be  well  adapted  to  the  use  of  Schools,  Academies  and  Col- 
leges, and  we  need  not  add,  that  for  the  general  reader,  ita 
8Ui)erior  can  not  be  found  in  our  language. 

JoHjr  Foster,  •*  the  Renowned  Essayist,"  in  speaking  of 
Tytler  and  his  History,  says,  "He  is  an  able  and  practical 
thinker,  possessed  of  ample  stores  of  learning  and  general 
knowledge,  well  acquainted  with  History,  schools  and  ques- 
tions of  philosophy,  a  discriminative  judge  of  characters, 
and  loritiiig  in  a  style  which  we  deem  a  Jinished  example  of 
transparent  diction.  It  is  so  singularly  lucid,  so  free  from 
all  affected  rhetoric  and  artificial  turns  of  phrase,  so  perfect- 
ly abstracted,  with  the  exception  of  a  law  term  or  two,  from 


Ill 


every  dialect  appropriated  to  a  particular  subject,  tJiat  we 
have  never  viewed  thoughts  through  a  purer  medium,  it  is  so 
pure  and  perfect,  that  we  can  read  on  without  our  attention 
being  arrested  by  the  medium ;  it  is  as  if  there  were  noth- 
ing, if  we  may  so  express  ourselves,  between  us  and  the 


thought." 


T.  WILEY,  JR. 


Tytler's  Universal  History  may  be  had  in  Halifax,  N.  S., 
at  the  Store  of  Messrs.  Tkemain  &  Nash. 


I 


THOIVIAS    iriLEY,    JR. 

PUBLISHER  AND  BOOKSELLER, 

30  State  Street,  Boston, 

Keeps  constantly  on  hand  a  large  assortment  of 

LITERARY,  SCIENTIFIC,  JUVENILE  AiXOMISCELLAXEOUS 

LLj  C£:>  cs:)  i:^,  ^  o 

All  the  Cheap  Publications  of  the  day,  comprising 
NOVELS,  TALES,  ROMANCES  AND   WORKS 

OP   A   HIGHElt   ORDER, 

And  receives  subscriptions  to  all 

STANDARD  AND   POPULAR   PERIODICALS, 

for  most  of  which  he  is  the  Publisher's  Agent. 

T.  W.,  Jr.  pays  particular  attention  to  Orders  from  the 
country.  Dealers  who  will  send  their  favors,  may  depend 
upon  having  them  answered  with  promptness,  and  at  low 
rates, — and  ui)on  having  their  books  packed  with  care. 

All  works,  by  whomsoever  advertised  or  published,  sup- 
plied as  above. 


TO  MIJflSTERS,  LAW YERSy  PUBLIC  SPEAKERS,  AJiTD  PUBLIC 
AJtTD  PRIVATE  SIJ^TOERS. 


A  NEW  REMEDY  AND  SURE  CURE 


FOR 

BRONCHITIS,    COUGHS,   COLDS,    INFLUENZA,    CATARRH, 
HOARSENESS,  &c. 

THE  BBOIVCHIAI.  COMFIT, 

Is  a  preparation  from  simple  ingredients  designed  for  the 
cure  of  all  diseases  of  the  Throat,  and  for  the  use  of  all  per- 
sons having  occasion  for  an  unusual  exercise  of  the  voice, 
and  especially  for  the  use  of  Singers,  to  be  used  before  sing- 
ing to  prepare  the  organs  for  use,  and  after  singing,  to  allay 
any  irritation  or  hoarseness  which  may  have  been  created. 
It  will  also  be  found  invaluable  in  all  chronic  inflammations, 
and  those  caused  by  the  transient  effects  of  cold.  There 
are  many  lovers  of  music  who  would  be  good  vocalists,  but 
for  a  most  disagreeable  and  unpleasant  hoarseness  of  the 
voice.  To  such  persons,  the  Bronchial  Comfit  is  recommend- 
ed, with  the  assurance  that  they  will  find  great  satisfaction 
in  its  use.  It  is  prepared  under  the  best  medical  supervision, 
and  is  entirely  free  from  all  deleterious  ingredients. 

Sold  by  T.  WILEY,  Jr.,  for  the  proprietors,  at  his  Book- 
store, No.  20  State  Street,  Boston.      Price  25  cts.  per  box. 

Agents  are  wanted  in  different  parts  of  the  country. 


DIRECTIONS  FOR  USE. 

The  Comfit  should  be  used  as  follows :  in  cases  of  Cold^ 
or  Bronchitis,  take  from  10  to  12  a  day,  and  be  careful  not 
to  swallow  them  hastily,  but  keep  them  melting  gradually 


in  the  mouth  so  as  to  have  the  moisture  gently  diffused,  that 
it  may  act  permanently  on  the  parts. 

When  taken  with  a  view  to  soothe  and  lubricate  the  or- 
gans, previous  to  the  exercise  of  speaking  and  sinsring^  use 
2  or  3  at  a  time.  The  same  number  may  also  be  advantage- 
ously used  after  such  exerciso.  In  cases  of  Hoarseness  and 
hiflaonza,  4  or  5  may  be  taken  before  speaking. 


We  subjoin  a  few  Certificates  from  persons  of  eminent 
standing,  which  will  be  a  sufficient  guaranty  to  the  public. 

From  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Segutn,  and  Mr.  Frazler,  the  ivell 
kno^vn  Opera  Singers. 

Gentlemen  :  We  have  used  the  Bronchial  Comfit,  and 
have  found  it  of  very  great  service  to  us.     Wo  take  pleas- 
ure in  recommending  it  to  all  who  are  afflicted  with  hoarse- 
ness, as  a  very  speedy  method  of  getting  rid  of  it. 
Yours,  respectfully, 

ANNE  SEGT'IN, 
EDWARD  SEGUIN, 
I.  J.  FRAZIER. 


Front  Edwin  Forrest,  the  celebrated  Tragedian. 

Gentlemex:  I  have  used  your  "Bronchial  Comfit,"  and 
recommend  it  to  public  speakers  as  an  excellent  remedy  for 
hoarseness,  or  huskiness  of  voice. 

Yours,  respectfullv,  , 

EDWIN  FORREST. 


From  3Ir.  Dempster* 

**  With  much  pleasure  I  add  mv  testimony  to  the  good 
qualities  of  the  BRONCHIAL  COMFIT.  My  voice  while 
under  the  influence  of  cold,  received  immediate  benefit  from 
its  use,  and  I  do  strongly  recommend  it  to  others  in  such 
cases.  W.  R.  DEMPSTER." 


VI 


From  J«  G*  Ulaeder,  Vooaliit« 

OnNTLT3ME.v :  In  compliance  with  your  request,  that  I 
should  give  my  opinion  csnccrning  the  remedy  for  Hoarse- 
ness, &c.,  which  I  procured  of  you,  T  nra  delijrhted  to  say 
that  its  effect  is  all  I  could  desire.  I  consider  the  Jironchi- 
al  Comlit  of  the  groatedt  value  to  all  pcr.^ons  suffering  from 
Hoarseness,  or  other  obstructions  of  the  Throat,  caused  by 
excessive  use  of  the  parts,  or  from  the  effects  of  cold. 
I  am  your  obedient  serv't, 

J.  G.MAEDEU. 


From  niessrs.  Murdoch  nnil  Rnsse11«  Elocutionists* 

To  the  Proprietors  of  the  Bi'onchial.  Comfit : 

Sill— In  answer  to  your  enquiry  regarding  our  opinion  of 
your  Bronchial  Comfit,  we  would  say  that  we  have  ourselves 
used  it  for  some  time,  and  that  many  of  our  students  liave 
done  ihe  same,  with  great  advantage.  It  seems  well  adapt- 
ed to  its  purpose ;  and  as  we  frequently  have  occasion  to 
answer  inquiries  respecting  the  best  preparation  of  the  kind, 
for  the  use  of  public  speakers,  we  shall  be  happy  to  recom- 
mend your  Comfit  as  such. 

We  are,  sir,  yours,  respectfully, 

WILLIAM  KUSSELL, 
J.  E.  MUKDOCII. 


;. 


From   Messrs.   Baker  and  Woodbury,   Professors    of 

Music. 

Gentlemkn:  I  have  used  your  preparation  and  recom- 
mend it  to  others,  not  only  as  an  effective  remedy  against 
irritations  of  the  throat  arising  from  colds,  or  long  contin- 
ued exertion  of  the  voice,  but  also  as  a  valuable  aid  to  the 
flexibility  of  the  organs,  and  to  freedom  of  execution  in  vo- 
cal effort.  B.  F.  BAKER. 

Odeon,  Dec.  6,  1844. 

Gents  :  I  have  used  the  Bronchial  Comfit  as  a  remedy  for 
hoarseness  and  means  for  allaying  all  irritations  of  Vocal 
organs.  I  consider  it  admirably  adapted  for  these  purposes. 
Many  of  my  pupils  have  used  it  also  with  the  most  benefi- 
cial results.  I.  B.  WOODBUBY. 


# 


Vll 


Letter  from  Rev.  Sir.  Laivrancef  of  Haverhill. 

Boston,  November  22,  1814. 

To  the  Proprietors  of  the  Bronchial  Comfit  : 

GiiXTMJMKy — Ilavin;^  siiffoiccl  with  IJronchial  difficulty 
for  tho  last  three  or  tour  years,  and  having  made  use  of  tho 
inatodala  of  your  preparation  with  decided  bcneiit,  although 
in  a  loss  perfect  combination  than  I  find  yours  to  be,  I  am 
happy  to  give  it  my  eonlial  approval.  I  have  tried  various 
remedial  means,  but  vvith  little  or  no  good  cffont.  I  believe 
that  clerical  gentlemen,  especially,  who  have  been  troubled 
by  similar  dillioultics  in  public  speaking,  would  derive  es- 
sential advantage  from  the  use  of  your  preparation.  From 
sympathy  with  such  suti'erers,  I  give  it  my  cordial  recom- 
mendation to  them. 

EDWAKD  A.  I.AWltANCE. 


t 


From  a  dlHtiiignlslicd  Unitarian  PreacUer,  of  Boston. 

From  some  use  of  the  Bronchial  Comfit,  and  from  the  na- 
ture and  properties  of  some  of  the  ingredients  that  enter 
into  its  composition,  1  am  enabled  to  say,  as  I  do  say  very 
cheerfully,  that  I  have  tho  utmost  confidence  in  its  adapted- 
ness  to  relieve  public  speakers,  and  to  allay  irritation  after 
exercise  of  speaking  is  over.  If  preachers  would  employ  it 
generally  after  exertion  of  the  voice,  they  would  unques- 
tionably find  it  the  means  of  much  comfort,  and  a  safeguard 
against  disease. 

December,  184-1. 


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From  Rev.  S.  Remington,  (formerly  a  Physician.) 

Deak  Siii:  From  my  knowledge  of  the  different  articles 
of  which  your  lozenges  are  composed,  I  am  prepared  to  say 
that  they  are  not  only  safe,  but  very  excellent  for  public 
speakers  to  enable  them  to  guard  against  and  counteract 
Hoarseness.  By  the  too  frequent  exercise  of  the  organs  of 
the  voice  and  by  those  catarrhal  attacks  peculiar  to  this  cli- 
mate, the  uvula  becomes  greatly  elongated,  and,  dipping 
down  upon  the  epiglottis,  troublesome  irritation  attended  by 
cough  often  forows.  The  parts  also  which  surround  the 
uvula,  its  curtain  and  glands,  are  liable  to  become  weakened 


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and  relaxed,  the  consequence  of  which  is  the  secretion  of 
too  much  mucous,  causing  a  roughness  of  the  voice  and  a 
diflfloulty  of  speaking,  and  laying  the  foundation  for  throat 
disease,  bronchitis,  &c.  For  ail  these  difHeultics,  these  loz- 
enges furnish  a  gentle  and  grateful  stimulant, which  cleanse 
the  voice  by  contracting  the  muscula  fibre,  and  so  relieving 
the  parts  from  irritations,  and  I  therefore  most  cheerfully 
recommend  them  as  a  very  excellent  palliative. 

Yours,  truly, 

S.  REMINGTON. 

From  J.  H.  FarnsMrorth* 

Gents  :  Having  used  the  "  Bronchial  Comfit,"  and  de- 
rived much  benefit  from  it,  I  feel  impelled  to  bear  testimo- 
ny to  its  worth.  I  have  used  it  from  the  time  of  its  first 
appearance,  and  am  confident  that  it  is  a  valuable  preventa- 
tive against  Bronchitis,  and  consider  it  an  invaluable  reme- 
dy for  hoarseness,  and  all  obstructions  of  the  throat  arising 
from  irritation  of  the  mucous  membrane.  I  cheerfully  re- 
commend it  for  the  use  of  public  speakers  and  singers ;  it 
needs  to  be  but  generally  tried  to  be  generally  used. 

J.  H.  FARNSWORTH, 
Pastor  of  the  Universalist  Society ^  Hingham^  Mass. 


The  Bronchial  Comfit  may  be  had  in  Halifax,  N.  S.,  at 
the  Store  of  Messrs.  T&emain  &  Nash. 


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